Probable Cause

by Ridley Pearson

  De Sica continued, “That’s when I seen the cars.”

  “It would have been dark at five-thirty,” Dewitt suggested.

  “Lighter than you might think. I seen two cars.” He corrected himself, “One car and that truck.”

  “Did you see either of the vehicles arrive?”

  “No.”

  “Did you happen to see either driver?”

  “Sure did. Sort of. Like I told the kid… a big guy. He came around to the door of the truck when I seen him. Switched on a flashlight… but I couldn’t see nothing. Then he got back in his car and took off. Door made that same noise. A real loud pop.”

  “Do you know what kind of car it was?”

  “Two tone, I can tell you that. Maybe a convertible, with a white roof.”

  Nelson arrived with the camera bag in hand.

  “You gonna take my picture?” De Sica asked.

  “No, sir,” Dewitt said, looking back down at the parking lot. How much could this man have actually seen at that hour?

  On his note pad it read, “Two-tone convertible? Loud bang? Big man.”

  “I’d like to change my shirt if you’re going to take my picture,” said Anthony De Sica.

  4

  Shortly thereafter, the perimeter of the crime scene filled with reporters and authorities of varying importance. Dewitt briefed Commander Karl Capp, as well as an investigator from the District Attorney’s office, and a lieutenant from the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.

  Capp issued a brief and carefully worded statement that essentially paved the way for a later press conference. He refused to give a specific time for the press conference and refused comment on cause of death, warning that “undue speculation on the part of the media could place unnecessary burden on the citizens of Carmel.” His facial expressions belied his confidence. He slipped away unnoticed a few minutes later.

  Dewitt arrived at the office at eleven o’clock, weeded through a stack of pink memo slips, and then shared his suspicions with the ever-supportive Clarence Hindeman. By noon, he had phoned the records department at the Department of Justice in Sacramento, requesting the case files of all deaths by asphyxiation in the last five years.

  Ginny miraculously located an FBI Violent Criminal Apprehension Program report for him. VICAP, a division of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit had been established in the early eighties to keep track of all violent crimes. If any crimes similar to these had been committed in California, then the information from Sacramento would help him. If murders such as these had been committed out of state, then the FBI would know about it. He thought it ironic that the information he sought was the last information he wanted: If either of these agencies confirmed his suspicions, then chances were he was in pursuit of a serial killer. Even the most veteran of cops feared those two words put together.

  Dewitt arrived at the Community Hospital early afternoon and peeked in on Anna, but only briefly because two nurses were in the process of cleaning her.

  He drove on to Pacific Grove, to Maratia’s Funeral Parlor; its architecture was a throwback to the late-eighteenth-century Spanish influence—stucco and red-tile roof—when Catholic missionaries had first settled the area. The wrought-iron gate clicked shut musically behind him. Even in January various shrubs declared themselves in spectacular bloom. Windham Hill music played from ceiling speakers in the reception area. The room deodorizer smelled like raspberry jam, attempting to mask the chemical odors that worked their way insidiously from the windowless back room. The butcher shop, he had heard the room called.

  That’s where he found Dr. Emmanuel perched on a stool, his glasses dramatically enlarging his eyes as he looked up. “You’ve spoken to McDuff’s wife about I.D.ing the body?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes, and I’m going to see her tonight. She won’t make it down here until early evening.”

  “We can’t cut him until we have a positive I.D.,” Emmanuel informed him.

  “What a shame,” cracked Dewitt. “You mean we only get to do one of these today?”

  Dewitt delayed the autopsy by first checking Osbourne’s body with the portable laser. The laser light, viewed through special goggles, turned hairs and fibers a fluorescent green against the backdrop of the corpse’s skin. The technology, which had come into use in the early eighties, allowed much greater scrutiny than previous high-power-magnification examination. The resulting detection of trace evidence at crime scenes and in the lab had improved considerably as a result.

  Emmanuel switched off the lights. As Dewitt waved the small wand over Osbourne’s leg, Emmanuel looking on, he related a story of how the laser had solved a rape/murder two years earlier when a latent fingerprint’s natural oil had been found on the victim’s thigh. As with hairs and fibers, a fingerprint became visible under the laser light as well, showing bright green and giving the device a nickname within law enforcement of the “magic wand.” It was just such advances in technology that made forensics fascinating for Dewitt, and at moments like these, he felt completely himself, secure in the comfort of his expertise, surefooted and confident. He was soon picking hairs and fibers from Osbourne’s limbs and torso, depositing them in vials that Emmanuel then labeled. Discouraged by a lack of any fingerprints, he made up for it by discovering an abundance of cotton pills on Osbourne’s calves, buttocks, and shoulder blades. Natural fibers such as cotton were often dismissed because they were so common to any crime scene. As a criminalist, however, James Dewitt dismissed nothing: All evidence was meant to be collected, whether or not it ever became relevant to the investigation.

  At long last, Dewitt reached John Osbourne’s head, and a half-dozen smudged fingerprints where the victim had groomed himself. Dewitt was working the spray of the light across Osbourne’s hair when he asked without looking up, “You sent his clothes to the lab?”

  “Yes, each bagged separately as you requested. Why, what have you found?”

  Dewitt worked the forceps carefully into the hair and pinched a fiber. Like any professional, Dewitt had become familiar with the elements of his trade. Where a carpenter could pick a ten-penny nail out of a pile of nails, or a surgeon such as Emmanuel could identify an organ, Dewitt knew hairs and fibers. “These are all through his hair on this side,” he said, casting the light on the synthetic squiggle held by the jaws of his forceps. The fiber appeared electrified as it caught the light.

  “What is it?” the doctor asked.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” said James Dewitt, “I would say they’re synthetic carpet fibers.” He placed the wand down, walked over and switched on the room lights, able for the first time to see the true color of the fiber. He held it up to the light. He recognized that color. “Osbourne’s luggage was found shoved into the back of the trunk. That puzzled me at first. I think we now know why.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “The trunk was too small for the bicycle,” he said, confusing the doctor, who didn’t know the details of the case, “so he put the body there instead.”

  5

  Having failed to find a replacement, Dewitt arrived for his volunteer work at the Monterey Aquarium at ten minutes before seven. He had been a marine-science major in college, until the criminalistics bug had bitten him. Like so many in law enforcement, he wasn’t exactly sure how he had gotten there. These evenings at the aquarium brought him back to his old love, however; they served the purpose of a welcome diversion.

  The aquarium, a U-shaped renovated cannery facing the ocean, was relatively empty tonight, a relief to Dewitt, because the tour-bus nights proved draining and anxiety-ridden. He entered, as always, via the members’ side entrance, passing beneath a sixty-foot life-sized replica of a gray whale and calf. The overhead ventilation system kicked on much too loudly, and Dewitt bristled that it still had not been repaired. He headed directly for the information booth, straight ahead. Above him, a pod of plaster orca whales swam toward the picture windows. A dozen curious visitors were split between the raised-deck and f
loor-level viewing areas for the sea otters.

  Dewitt stopped at Information to speak for a minute with Cynthia Chatterman, an extremely active board member, a try-too-hard divorcee with costly clothes and a raspy voice. Dewitt took his station at The Kelp Forest. At thirty-one feet deep, sixty-one feet long, this, the largest tank in the aquarium, held 335,000 gallons of seawater and a good many of the aquarium’s five thousand species of aquatic life. Dewitt knew the English and Latin names for each species in this tank, had nicknamed a few of the more distinctive inhabitants; his favorite was Wax the turtle. His job was to be the walking encyclopedia, the Mister Know It All for the curious, and he had taken the responsibility to heart.

  The thirty-foot trees of deep green kelp swayed with the artificially controlled movement of the water; sharks, salmon, and needlefish nosed the viewing windows. Dewitt explained to a young couple how the nutrient-rich ocean water was pumped into the tank at a rate of two thousand gallons per minute during off-hours in order to keep the inhabitants fed. Filtered at a similar rate in the early morning, the seawater was then cleared of the cloudy nutrients for another day of viewing.

  With the light crowd, his work was steady but not frantic. At 7:30, he headed around the U to the public cafeteria. Beatrice McDuff sat alone at a table. He recognized her by the black dress and the sadness in her eyes. He checked to make sure, “Mrs. McDuff?”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded.

  “Detective Dewitt,” he said. “James.”

  She nodded.

  He sat down facing her and waited a few long minutes until she looked up. A couple at the next table was complaining to some friends about people smoking on the tour bus. A six-year-old was standing at one of the picture windows, gazing outside at the lighted rock pools, saying “Whales, Mommy. Whales.” He was watching a frolicking pair of sea otters, one of them pregnant.

  “I appreciate your taking the time to come over here,” he began. “I couldn’t find a substitute.” In fact, he knew she was staying at a hotel less than a mile away.

  She drew a fingernail along the imitation grain in the tabletop’s plastic veneer. “It’s a long drive down,” she said. “Tell me something,” she said bitterly. “I have to identify him, but I can’t take him home, can’t have him back yet. Is that your doing?”

  “As much as anyone’s, I suppose,” he admitted.

  Her face tightened. She waved her hand at him and looked up with lifeless eyes.

  Dewitt said, “There’s a reason for the delay: We believe your husband may have been murdered. As evidence—”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, interrupting him. “Not suicide?” she added. He realized then that she had been living with the unacceptable thought that she had failed her husband, had driven him to suicide. “I knew it wasn’t suicide,” she said clearly, suddenly animated.

  “I need to ask some questions,” he said.

  She agreed with a nod of her head.

  “There appears to have once been a tape player in the truck. Can you tell me when it was stolen?”

  “Stolen? That’s impossible.” Dewitt waited. If you wait long enough, the other person invariably starts talking again to fill the void. She said, “When I spoke to him yesterday noon, he didn’t mention it. Impossible. My Mac, he loved his C & W. He would have been furious. Stolen?”

  “You spoke to him yesterday at noon?”

  “Tried to call me twice a day if he could manage.

  “He didn’t mention the tape machine?”

  “No, sir, he did not.”

  Dewitt took notes. “And he didn’t call you a second time?”

  “Can’t say for sure. I was over to a neighbor who’s not well. Mac might have called. But if his stereo had been stolen, I can tell you one thing: He would have called you people right away. You gotta have a police report for the insurance. We learned that last year when his decoys were stolen.”

  “He was in this area on business?” Dewitt asked.

  A private, reflective voice attempting to sound strong: “Yes. Repaired microwave relays.”

  “And he dealt in home satellite dishes as well, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “We found related equipment in the back of his truck,” he explained. “And this trip?”

  “Microwave problems out at Fort Ord. Seems he’s down to Fort Ord once or twice a month. They have their own people, but Mac could fix most anything. Was Army once himself.”

  “Fort Ord,” Dewitt repeated.

  “That’s right.”

  “So he was staying in the area?”

  “Depends how his schedule was working out. Had other work down south of here at Big Sur. If he got through early enough, he wouldn’t have stayed, no.”

  “If he had stayed, any place in particular he might have been? Favorite eating spots, motels, anything like that?” Notebook out. Pen ready.

  “Not my Mac. No, sir. Mac was always trying someplace new. That’s just the way he was. Oh, I’m not saying he wouldn’t go back to the same place now and again, but not as a rule, you know. Variety is the spice of life,” she reflected. “That’s my Mac.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s bad?”

  Dewitt shrugged. Doesn’t make things any easier for me, he felt like saying. Instead, he asked, “Did your husband keep receipts, a logbook, anything like that?”

  “Sure he did.”

  “Which?”

  “A notebook. A smaller notebook than the one you’ve got there.”

  “We didn’t find anything like that on him, or in his possessions.”

  “No notebook? That’s not right. You must have missed it. Mac carried that thing around right here,” she said, lifting a hand to an imaginary breast pocket, “like a preacher with his Bible. He was real good about keeping track.”

  “He didn’t leave it at home, something like that?”

  “No, sir. And even if he had, he woulda just bought another.”

  “And the receipts?”

  “Kept ’em in his billfold. Right rear pocket,” she said fondly, lowering her eyes again. She rubbed her fingers together absentmindedly, and Dewitt could picture her having removed that wallet at the washing machine.

  “We found no receipts in the wallet,” he said.

  “No, sir. That’s not right,” she objected. “That can’t be, Detective. He empties that billfold last day of the month. Rubber-bands and files the receipts. I oughta know; I do the bookkeeping for him. Should be at least two weeks of gas receipts and whatnot in there. He’s been on the road an awful lot this month. Has to be lots of receipts in there.”

  Dewitt scribbled a note.

  “Someone took them?” she asked.

  “Could be,” Dewitt admitted. They had found no receipts on Osbourne, either. “Did your husband ever mention the name John Osbourne?”

  “The one in the papers? Are you telling me the same man who killed my Mac killed that boy, too? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “If there was a connection between your husband and John Osbourne.”

  She shook her head. “That’s a name I wouldn’t forget.”

  Both victims had jobs that carried them up and down the coast and its communities. Was McDuff a drug dealer, as well? He said, “Is there any way their businesses might have overlapped? John Osbourne was a lobbyist for the entertainment industry. Was your husband active in the organizational end of the satellite industry, anything like that?”

  “All the dealers are active, what with the scrambling and the government poking its nose into it. ‘Specially free-lancers like Mac. I see what you’re saying. I suppose they might have known each other, but I don’t think so. I would remember that name.”

  He ran a dozen more questions past her, trying to nail down specifics of her husband’s schedule and habits, frustrated by the fact that “Mac” McDuff ran his own one-man shop and varied his habits to keep road life tolerable.

  He returned to the question
of receipts. “From the look of his truck, your husband wasn’t exactly obsessed with order. Is that a fair statement?”

  “You’re saying he was a slob. He mighta been messy, but he knew where everything was. He had one of those kinda minds. If there was a clean pair of socks in his suitcase, he knew exactly where it was. Did you check his suitcase for his receipts?” she asked, the thought just occurring to her. “If he got too many, he would rubber-band them and put them in his suitcase. Like I said, it’s been a busy month. Might be one bunch of them in his suitcase.”

  “I’ll check,” Dewitt said, thanking her. “None of the lab work is in yet.”

  “Check his suitcase,” she repeated softly.

  Beatrice McDuff grew distant, perhaps recalling packing that suitcase. Dewitt reached across and took the woman’s hand gently. She didn’t seem to notice. It may not matter to you right now, Mrs. McDuff, he wanted to say, but we’re doing everything in our power to catch the person responsible. He tended to think in clichés when he felt uncomfortable. Instead, he said, “I lost my wife a few months ago. You’re a very strong woman, if that’s any consolation.”

  She nodded politely as her tears began to run.

  6

  Howard Lumbrowski felt ill. Following the Steven Miller incident, he had failed a blood test and had been placed on psychological disability—suspended with pay. He was supposed to be in treatment. Instead, he had been in the bars. Now he was trying something new: not exactly cold turkey, more like lukewarm. He had cut back to four drinks a day—just enough to keep the shakes from rattling him apart. His stomach burned. He broke into sweats unexpectedly and his heart took off like he was mainlining adrenaline. Dizzy spells, nausea.

  It all started with John Osbourne and the coke he had been carrying in the glove compartment. What a shock that had been! It complicated everything. He had begun making phone calls immediately, had started the ball rolling: There was someone out there missing a few thousand worth of soda, and he had it. Not the kind of situation to handle drunk, no sir. He had to get this thing worked out.