“Was that Lumbrowski I just saw?” Dewitt asked. Capp pretended he didn’t hear.
To Dewitt, Hindeman said, “We filled Mr. Roth in on this new evidence, James, the tape, the hose, and he asked to speak with us. His concern, if I’m not mistaken, is how much we tell the press.”
Roth began harshly, “Listen, I’m not trying to tell you guys your business.” He stood and walked behind Hindeman’s desk to the window. He pulled on the cord and lifted the dusty Levolor blinds. Dewitt didn’t know him well, but it seemed he must have had some drama coaching at some point in his life. He pointed out the window theatrically and said, “But that out there is my business. Those streets, shops, galleries, restaurants, you name it. If we go saying that there’s a killer loose in this town, those sidewalks are going to dry up overnight. And those tourists are what keep us going, gentlemen. No tourists, no business, no taxes, no salaries—”
“No votes,” Dewitt said under his breath.
“What’s that, Detective?” Roth exclaimed in a quick pivot.
Dewitt said, “I appreciate your concerns, Mayor Roth. But we need to use whatever means available to stop this guy. The press is a very effective tool. Not only do we alert the public, and therefore gain thousands of eyes and ears, but we may scare this guy off, make him think twice. The press has already been speculating about the possibility—”
“Speculation, yes,” Roth said, interrupting Dewitt. “But no one with authority has actually come out and said it is murder. See the difference? How can there possibly be harm in issuing a statement that the deaths are of a suspicious nature and that the investigation is ongoing? That avoids the word murder but keeps us honest with the public.”
Capp growled, “Besides, Dewitt, we sure as hell don’t want to give them the evidence. If you tell them how we know it’s homicide, then the perp knows what to avoid next time. Even by issuing a statement, we clue this A-hole into the fact that we’re on to him. It may be better for everyone if we just lay low for a while.”
Hindeman said, “That kind of approach can come back to haunt us, Manny. Eventually, what we knew and when we knew it will become public, and unless we’ve been up front about this, there are those who will inevitably claim that had we been more forthcoming, lives might have been saved.”
“What we’re saying,” Dewitt explained, drawing the lines—he and Hindeman on one side, Capp and Roth on the other—“is that this guy is unlikely to just stop doing this. Cases like this… there will be more killings. We may be able to scare this guy into giving it up. I propose we release a statement that we know they’re homicides, that we have the cooperation of both the District Attorney’s office and the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office, and that a major manhunt is being mounted.”
Roth paced by the window, his profile unflattering. Dewitt couldn’t believe the way the guy dressed; he wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those plaids, much less all of them at once.
“Let me ask you this, Detective Dewitt. If someone came through that door in the next five minutes and confessed to the crimes, but you had no more evidence than you currently have, would Bill Saffeleti have a case?”
Dewitt looked over to Hindeman. It was a rigged question. No more evidence than you currently have. “If we had a confession, then we would have a search warrant and we’d likely turn up more evidence, so that’s kind of a tricky question to answer.”
“But if you didn’t turn up more evidence? What I’m asking… does any of the evidence hold any promise of linking a particular individual to either of the crimes?”
Attempting to dodge the question, Dewitt said, “We might find the car that left behind that motor oil.”
Capp said stridently, “That motor oil doesn’t do you no good ‘cause all it does is suggest someone was nearby the kills. That doesn’t give you probable cause. And you sure as hell aren’t going to convict a guy with dog hairs,” he mocked.
“We’ve got fingerprints we’re processing,” Hindeman reminded.
“Fingerprints?” Roth said in surprise.
Capp countered, “There’s no saying the guy who lifted the tape player is the perp. We’ve been over that. Why weren’t there prints, other than McDuff’s, found somewhere else in that truck cab?”
Dewitt could feel it slipping away. When someone pulled on the rope really hard, you could often knock them off their feet by just letting go. He said, “Listen, it is circumstantial evidence. I know that.” He witnessed the shock register on Hindeman’s face. “Enough for probable cause? Doubtful, right now. But like any investigation, one piece of evidence often leads to two or three more. The question we’re throwing around is whether or not we inform the public. I, for one, don’t want another victim on my conscience. You want to play this differently,” he said directly to Manny Roth, “then that’s your decision. You live with the next kill, not me. Remember, our first responsibility isn’t to catch him.” Roth viewed Dewitt skeptically. Dewitt affirmed, “It’s to stop him. I want this guy knowing we’re on to him. I want him looking over his shoulder.”
“I’ll handle the press conference,” Hindeman said, his decision obvious.
“Jesus,” Roth exclaimed, “this thing’s getting out of hand.”
Dewitt said, “Getting?” He excused himself and left the room in a hurry.
3
Howard Lumbrowski arrived back at his apartment at a few minutes past four, frustrated by what he considered a wasted day. The place smelled worse than the vacant lot next door. The worn couch and beat-up desk were all that remained of his furniture, excepting the milk crate that held the black-and-white television with a screen the size of a toaster. He’d had a canvas-backed chair at the desk for a while, but the back had blown out and Lumbrowski had tossed the whole thing out the window onto the fire escape, where it still remained.
Things were not going well. He had to find out who belonged to that coke, before it became a major liability. It was either his meal ticket or his death warrant.
There was something about the phone ringing at that exact moment that triggered his cop’s distrust of coincidence. You don’t serve on the force for seventeen years without gaining certain instincts. He was being watched. Perhaps followed.
He could have allowed it to ring, not answer it, but why? You used people in this business, used whomever you had to use to get the job done. He had tried it the other way for a while—a couple months was all—way back there as a rookie patrolman. However, then he had learned an easier way to get the job done. If you busted a hooker for the fourth time, when both of you knew she was going to do time if she was booked, you offered her a choice: drop to her knees and do you service or drive her downtown and take cutesy photographs with numbers as a necklace. If you had to hit a guy a few times to get the correct story out of him, hit him where he wouldn’t bruise. Tricks. Little ways to lubricate a constipated system that reeked of shit-ass laws meant to protect the very assholes committing the crimes. Why did Lady Justice wear a blindfold? So she couldn’t see who was screwing her.
“Yeah?” he answered, checking his watch and wondering whether it was too early to drink a stabilizer.
“It’s time we do business,” said that same voice. “You must be tired of running around.”
“I’m listening.”
“For a change.”
“Don’t push me, pal.” Lumbrowski’s eyes found the third drawer down in the kitchen. It was in there, lying on its side. Waiting.
“We need to talk. Person to person. Not over the phone. I have photos I think you’ll be interested in.”
“Photos?” Lumbrowski asked, trying to remember how much available light there had been those mornings. Could someone have actually taken photos?
“That’s right. I think you’ll be very interested in seeing them.”
“How much?”
“It’s negotiable,” said the voice. “Nothing tonight. This is a get-acquainted meeting.”
Lumbrowski said, “Talk to me.”
“I name the place. You’ll be searched by someone. He’ll set up the meet. I get any indication you’re trying to burn me, you’ll never see me again. You waste me, you won’t be able to stop those photos. You won’t like where they end up. For now, you go back to The Horseshoe. I’ll call you there.”
The line clicked dead.
“Wrong guy, pal,” Howard Lumbrowski said aloud as he entered the kitchen and pulled open the third drawer. He hesitated before reaching inside. It wouldn’t be smart to be drunk. This guy wasn’t stupid: He had thought it through carefully. He would obviously be watching his every move for the next few hours. He was a professional.
So what the hell had he been doing down at those parking lots at five in the morning?
4
At a few minutes past four, following the autopsy of Malcolm McDuff, which had left his stomach queasy but had yielded some interesting evidence, Dewitt decided to follow up on Lumbrowski’s Mustang, his curiosity aroused by that loud door pop earlier in the day. He looked in on Anna—no improvement—and then drove to Lumbrowski’s Seaside apartment complex. A few minutes later, he found the powder blue Mustang. It was parked in the apartment building’s carport.
Dewitt let Rusty out to roam the adjacent vacant lot and find a place to relieve himself. Rusty tried to initiate a game of chase, then gave up and followed his nose into the lot.
The carport parking spaces were numbered, which meant they were more than likely assigned. Dewitt checked beneath the vehicle, removing a hand covered with motor oil. A triangle of motor oil? he had to wonder. No way to know without running a more objective test—papering a clean floor and parking the car above it—and that kind of test would require a proper warrant. The presence of the oil, combined with De Sica’s description of the car, might prove enough to convince Saffeleti to petition a judge for a search warrant, but he doubted it.
The man’s voice had the distinct quality of a slowed-down recording. “Defective Dimwit,” Lumbrowski said from the stairway entrance, “to what do I owe this displeasure?”
Dewitt came to his feet, removing his handkerchief and cleaning his oily hand. Lumbrowski, a grotesquely huge man, carried a distended gut that stretched his wrinkled shirt at the buttons. His pallid face and flushed neck looked as though they were filled with compressed air. His shoulders hunched forward, the small scars in his face and the permanently swollen knuckles and crooked fingers belonged to a boxer.
“Curiosity,” he said, explaining. “We have a witness who I.D.’d a blue and white car at our second kill.”
“You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, Defective.”
“Yes, the cat gets killed.” Rusty barked, rushed up, and greeted Lumbrowski like a long-lost friend.
Lumbrowski petted the dog. “See? He likes me, Dimwit.”
“I wouldn’t take it to heart, Lumbrowski. Rusty once tried to get a mannequin to pet him.” He slapped his leg and Rusty heeled at his side. “Tell me something. You ever spend any time down by the Carmel beach?”
Lumbrowski smiled. “I don’t have to answer that, Detective.” He took a step forward and deliberately crushed Rusty’s paw with the toe of his shoe. As the dog yipped in pain, Lumbrowski used the situation to fall forward and throw his weight against Dewitt, slamming him against the Mustang strongly enough to knock the wind from him. “I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing Dewitt by the lapels and crushing him against the car again. “Jesus, but I’m clumsy,” he said, abruptly dropping both arms.
Dewitt felt like saying something macho: Next time, I won’t be wearing the badge—something like that. But the god-awful truth was that Lumbrowski was the wrong guy to pick a fight with. He weighed an easy 240 and was renowned as a former Golden Gloves boxer. So instead, Dewitt tried intimidation. “You might want to get a lawyer, Howie.”
“Dream on, Dimwit. You ain’t got nothing. You got a plate number? No, I don’t think you do, or it wouldn’t have taken even you this long. I don’t want a lawyer, Dimwit. I want a drink. Now pardon fuckin’ me. And watch out for your dog. I don’t look too careful when I back up.” He opened the door to the Mustang. The hinge cried and let out that painfully loud thunk as he jerked it open, and again as he closed it.
Dewitt called Rusty to his side with a single slap and watched as Lumbrowski nearly hit the Zephyr on his way out the drive.
5
Dewitt found District Attorney Bill Saffeleti in the reception area of his Monterey offices preparing to leave for the weekend. Saffeleti didn’t offer him a seat. Instead, he said curtly, “I’ve got drinks with the AG in about thirty minutes. He’s down here for Manny’s tourney. What’s up? Where’s the fire?”
“I have a witness from the McDuff crime scene who offered a fairly good description of an aging blue and white sports car. Driver was a big guy.” He explained overhearing Lumbrowski’s car door and that he had checked the car out, and that it was leaking oil. “I know it’s a Friday… but this is a homicide, a double homicide, and I’d like to impound Lumbrowski’s Mustang and check the pattern of oil.” Noting Saffeleti’s skeptical expression, he added, “We all get hunches, Bill. If that car is leaking a triangle of oil, then I want to impound it and run it by the lab for comparison.”
“Oh, Christ, Dewitt,” Saffeleti said, turning away, walking a few feet and looking back. “Based on?”
“The eyewitness.”
Saffeleti shook his head. “Your dislike of Lumbrowski is widely known in the judicial branch. Would you concede that?”
“It’s no secret.”
“So how do you think this is going to look? The first warrant we pursue is aimed at your archenemy. You’re setting yourself up, James.”
“Would I be violating his rights by slipping a piece of newspaper under his car?”
Saffeleti said, “You’re still collecting evidence.” He thought a moment. “Maybe we don’t need a warrant just yet. You have a fairly good case for suspicion based on your witness. That may allow you some headroom on collection of evidence.” He led Dewitt into his office, located a leather-bound volume on the bookshelf, and leafed through it. He paused twice to read and finally looked up. “That oil could be considered discarded evidence, as when a suspect throws an object from a moving vehicle, and the discarding of the object is observed by law-enforcement officers. That’s valid evidence, as long as the object was observed being thrown.”
“You’re saying that if I actually see a drip of oil fall from the undercarriage of Lumbrowski’s Mustang, that slipping a newspaper beneath the car to catch that oil is like retrieving discarded evidence?”
Saffeleti cautioned, “No arrest, no seizure without an exact match, James. An exact match gives you probable cause to suspect Lumbrowski directly. Once the car’s impounded, it’s up to the lab. If the lab comes back positive, then you can bring him in for questioning… but only questioning,” he reminded.
“Understood.”
“If you plan on impounding, make sure you have a one-eighty with you. If it’s not on your turf, we’d have a stronger case if a uniform handled it. And make sure you run the license plate through C.L.E.T.S. after you check that oil pattern, before you impound. With your track record with Lumbrowski, you do this in the wrong order and it will look like entrapment.”
6
Dewitt returned to the office to pick up a CHP 180 Impound Form that all the police departments used because it was a good form, and good forms were hard to come by. Ginny, at reception, stopped him with a conspiratorial look and hushed voice. Her skin was very black, her eye shadow a disturbing lime green. She was one of his favorite people here. “James. You have a job like this, you see things now and then that catch your attention because they’re out of the ordinary, you know?” She smiled. She was up to something. Purple lipstick today, some of it stuck to her front teeth. “Thing of it is, I never see him in the records room. Capp,” she added, as if he didn’t know to whom she was referring. “The man don’t know which button to push, for heav
en’s sake. So maybe I just happen to catch a glimpse of what’s in his hand when he comes out, and maybe I happen to see it’s one of your reports. Now, James, you know damn well that we gals got to keep strict records of any copies of investigative reports. That’s a P.O.S.T. requirement. So maybe I check your master on file in there, and come to find out, there’s no record of his copies. Now that ain’t right, James! If we got to do it right, then so does he.”
“When, Ginny?”
“Thing is, James, it didn’t click until the second time. I didn’t even check until after the second time.”
“Second time?”
“McDuff. First time was Osbourne. Didn’t record either of them as far as I can tell.”
Dewitt thanked her.
“Why’s he doing that, James?”
Dewitt shrugged.
“How come the commander don’t follow procedures, when the rest of us get screamed at if we don’t?”
“That’s something I intend to ask him,” Dewitt said.
“Oh, by the way,” she added, “you’ve got a visitor.”
Dewitt headed to his office, Rusty close on his heels.
“Sam?” he said, catching the man “reading” the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
Rusty shoved his nose deeply into the man’s crotch and wagged his whole body enthusiastically. The man tried to force Rusty’s mug out of his groin, but the dog was too strong. Short but stocky, Hector Ramirez, whom everyone called Sam, carried hard, inquisitive brown eyes beneath a long black unibrow. His face was slightly acne-scarred, his nose oversized and red at the nostrils from a constant battle with allergies. A middle-aged man, he now headed the Department of Justice’s fingerprint department in Sacramento. “Only been here a couple minutes. Clarence said he expected you back. Said you wouldn’t mind—”
“Not at all.”
He wore a dark houndstooth sport coat, blue-and-white-striped shirt, and black knit tie. In the breast pocket of the sport coat was an incongruous pink handkerchief. Rusty shifted his attention and nosed at the trash can. Dewitt sent him packing to his place in front of the file cabinet. The dog collapsed into a heap and sighed.
Probable Cause Page 7