Bullet Beth (George Hastings police procedural)

by James Patrick Hunt

  The whole process took about forty-five minutes. When it was done, the polygraph examiner removed the clips from Jeff’s body and told him it was over. Jeff exhaled and said he hoped he’d done okay.

  The polygraph examiner left the room, crossed the hall and knocked on the door, Murph and Hastings standing and ready.

  The polygraph examiner was a skinny woman of about forty. Her name was Phyllis McCune.

  She said, “Non-deceptive on all counts. He’s telling the truth.”

  “Any signs of sociopathic tendencies?” Murph asked.

  “Well, the exam can’t detect that. Do you think he’s a sociopath?”

  “No,” Hastings said. “We’ll take it from here. Thanks, Phyllis.”

  She left and Murph threw his hands up.

  Hastings said, “He’s no killer. Look at how nervous he was.”

  Murph said, “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “It means he’s nervous about taking a polygraph. Even the most innocent people are.”

  “It wouldn’t be admissible evidence in his defense.”

  “He didn’t do it, Murph. He volunteered to take this exam.”

  “So what?”

  “He wants to help us. Christ, he lost his best friend.”

  “All right, George. Sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “It’s all right. Thanks for coming.”

  Hastings escorted Jeff out of the polygraph room. In the hall, Hastings said, “You passed the exam.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Hastings said, “Did you think you wouldn’t?”

  “No. Look, I’m a Catholic. We feel guilty about things we haven’t done.”

  “You’re a Catholic?”

  “Yes. I go to mass every Sunday.”

  “Did Aaron go with you?”

  “No. He wasn’t spiritual at all. Oh, God.” Jeff started crying. Now that the exam was finished, he was letting his emotions loose.

  Hastings put a hand on his shoulder. “All right, Jeff. Come on. Come have a cup of coffee with me. I want to talk to you about this.”

  They walked out of the police department building and down the street to Union Station. They sat at a table near the Marriott brickwork. Hastings bought the coffees.

  Hastings said, “You live in an apartment, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a pool there?”

  “A pool…you mean a swimming pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, of course not. You’ve seen our apartment.”

  “Do you swim?”

  “Swim? Yes, I know how to swim.”

  “When’s the last time you went swimming?”

  “God, I don’t know. Let’s see…yes, a family vacation. A reunion. I swam at the hotel pool. You know, just to cool off.”

  “They found chlorinated water in Aaron’s lungs.”

  “What?”

  “Chlorinated water. He was drowned in a swimming pool.”

  “A swimming pool? Are you putting me on?”

  “No, Jeff. That’s what the medical examiner found.”

  Jeff Lacroix stared at him.

  Hastings said, “I’m not playing cop psych games with you, Jeff. I’m telling you the truth. Aaron drowned in a swimming pool. Then someone took him to the river, using his car, and dumped him in the river.”

  Jeff screwed up his face. “So he was murdered, then?”

  “Yeah, that’s how it looks.”

  Jeff sobbed. “Oh, God. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Hastings said. “But I think it has something to do with Johnny Rodgers. In fact, I’m sure it does. We weren’t entirely sure about Rodgers before. Plenty of people at the department thought he killed himself. I even thought it. But now…a suicide doesn’t make sense. For either of them.”

  “Johnny I can see. He was a shitpoke. A seedy, dirty man. But Aaron? God, Aaron was so harmless.”

  “Listen, Jeff, I know you loved Aaron. And I’m sorry you lost him. But I want to catch the person who did this. And I need you to help me.”

  “I am helping you.”

  “I know. But I need you to be honest with me. Honest with yourself. Ask yourself if Aaron was as innocent or as harmless as you thought he was. Ask yourself if there was something that maybe he was hiding from you. Something bad.”

  “He wasn’t. He had a thing for Johnny, yes. But Aaron was like a child.”

  “In what sense?”

  “I don’t mean child, like, retarded or anything. I mean like a high school kid. He wanted to be with the ‘in’ people. The popular kids. He was status conscious.”

  “But Johnny wasn’t exactly a status figure.”

  “No. But he was…you know, magnetic. Aaron was drawn to people like that. In the short term, anyway. But that doesn’t mean Aaron would get involved in a crime or anything. It wasn’t him. I told you this.”

  “I know what you told me. But I want you to think about it some more. Think about who Aaron saw, who he talked about. Now I’m going to tell you something about myself, Jeff, because I’m not sure you trust me and for that reason I think it’s important that you understand where I’m coming from. I don’t like people who murder and believe they can get away with it. I don’t like them at all. Catching people like that, hunting them down and putting them away, it’s what keeps me going. It’s what motivates me to get out of bed in the morning and put up with all kinds of shit as my…life…wears on. The fact that the victims are a couple of homosexuals who won’t be missed by many people is immaterial to me. My worldview, my reasons are not the same as yours. But believe me when I tell you I want to catch this killer as much as you do.”

  Jeff Lacroix sniffed. “Okay,” he said. “I believe you.”

  “Good. Now I want you to call me if you think of anything that might help me. Will you do that?”

  “I will.”

  Hastings, Klosterman, Rhodes, Murph met for lunch at a Chinese restaurant downtown. It was a cop hangout. Three patrol cars parked in front, two-ways on the table tops. The manager of the place was around Hastings’s age, first generation Chinese-American, and he was a big fan of the Missouri Tigers who liked to talk college football with Hastings. He greeted them warmly and showed them to the booth they favored.

  During lunch, Rhodes and Murph used chopsticks. Hastings and Klosterman used forks and spoons.

  Murph said, “I saw Karen in the hall. She said to me, ‘Well, I guess you finally guys got your homicide, huh.’ Like she was pissed off about it.”

  “She probably was,” Klosterman said.

  “Forget about her,” Hastings said. “Who would want to kill Johnny Rodgers and Aaron Peterson?”

  Murph said, “Have you thought about a guy, a gay guy, who’s living a ‘straight’ life? He’s done some sexual thing with one of them or both of them and he needs to cover it up before they expose him.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Hastings said. “You mean, like a blackmail?”

  “It could be blackmail,” Murph said. “Or just a threat. You remember the mayor’s aide murder a few years ago?”

  “Jim Henderson handled that,” Hastings said.

  “Yeah,” Murph said. “The victim was a homosexual. Henderson was hoping to find some sort of conspiracy or something attached to the mayor’s office, maybe get his name in the paper. But the murderer turned out just to be a spurned lover. Video camera in the apartment lobby got him coming out. I think he confessed.”

  “He did confess,” Hastings said. “Henderson got him to. He worked that case very well.”

  “Yeah, he did,” Klosterman said. “But I talked with Henderson about that too. He told me the guy couldn’t wait to confess. Jim was about sixty then and he had that father figure act down pat. He asked the suspect to tell him about his ‘friendship’ with the victim and the suspect burst into tears and just told him everything.”

  “Don’t knock that father figure approach,” Hastings said. “I’ve use
d it myself.”

  “Sure,” Klosterman said, “it can work if you’re old enough.” And the police officers laughed.

  “George,” Rhodes said. “This morning, I talked with a buddy of mine in the Gangs Unit. Lem Richards. You know him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a good officer,” Rhodes said. “Transferred to Gangs about two years ago. Anyway, Lem’s investigating two murders of a couple of known gangsters about a mile from the place where Peterson’s car was found.” Rhodes pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it to a page. He read the names aloud. “Cornelius Harold Trent and Delman Edwards. Two young black males with long criminal records. Lem thought it was probably your typical gang vengeance killing. But now he’s not so sure.”

  “This is the same night?” Hastings asked.

  “Yeah,” Rhodes said. “Here’s the thing. Trent was shot in the stomach at close range. And when I say close, I mean, like the gun’s right up against his stomach. And then in the chest. Delman Edwards was shot in the back. His body was a few yards away. Lem thinks he was fleeing and was shot in the back then. Then shot in the head. Execution style.”

  Murph said, “I’m not sure I see it.”

  “I’m not sure I do either,” Hastings said. “What do you think, Howard?”

  Rhodes said, “Lem and I talked about it. I think there’s a possible connection.” Using his chopsticks, Howard Rhodes gestured at an imaginary Mississippi River on the table. He said, “Okay, we know Peterson’s killer drove his car to the river. Peterson’s already dead, drowned in a swimming pool. The killer’s going to leave the car there because he wants the police to think Peterson drowned himself. Now, how does the killer get back? Does he hail a cab? Pretty hard to do in that part of town.”

  Klosterman said, “You’re presuming there’s one suspect. What if there were two? The co-conspirator followed the killer in another car, picked up the killer and they left together in the second car.”

  “That’s my point,” Rhodes said. “That’s what I talked with Lem about. See, Lem examined the scene of the murder. The shooter was against the wall when he shot Trent. Like, he was pushed up against the wall. Like Trent was going to harm him. Maybe roll him, maybe kill him.”

  Hastings asked, “Was Trent armed?”

  “Not with a gun,” Rhodes said. “He had a knife in his pocket. But it was in his pocket when he died. He never pulled it on the shooter. Delman Edwards had no weapons on him.”

  “So,” Hastings said, “maybe they thought the shooter would be easy prey. A person of slight stature.…You know, the shoe prints found by Peterson’s car were small. Not tiny, but certainly smaller than average.”

  “Maybe a woman,” Klosterman said.

  “Maybe,” Hastings said. To Rhodes, he said, “How tall was Trent?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out, will you?”

  Murph asked Rhodes, “Does Lem have any suspects?”

  “He’s got plenty,” Rhodes said. “These guys had a lot of enemies. Lem thinks they killed one of the Parkside Crips last month, but he couldn’t get any evidence or witnesses to prove it. So, yeah, there are people who wanted them dead. But Lem’s pretty smart. He thinks the evidence, the positions of the bodies and other things, suggests these guys got the surprise of their lives. If their killers had been rival gang members, they wouldn’t have died that way. They would have been on guard.” Rhodes shrugged. “It’s a theory. Something to think about.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said, “acting on your theory, we would say that the killer dumps Peterson in the river and then walks through the south city to get away…get home. Along the way, he runs into a couple of gangsters who accost him, threaten him. He’s got a gun hidden in his coat. The gangsters get close and he kills one and then kills the other. Shoots one in the back as he’s running away. Then gets close and puts one in his head. And then, I guess, gets the hell out of there.”

  “Yeah,” Rhodes said. “Pretty cold-blooded.”

  “I don’t know, guys” Murph said. “If Peterson’s killer had a gun, why wouldn’t he use it on Peterson too?”

  “Because he wanted Peterson’s death to look like a suicide,” Rhodes said.

  Hastings asked, “Does Lem know what kind of weapon was used?”

  “Yeah,” Rhodes said. “A thirty eight. Not a weapon typically used by gangbangers.”

  “Sort of a reverse profiling there, Howard,” Murph said.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of a reach,” Rhodes said. “But, like I said, Lem’s pretty smart.”

  • • •

  Back at the department, Hastings asked Murph to get the cell phone records for Aaron Peterson and Johnny Rodgers. Hastings said, “If you can write out the names of the people who they called and who called them…”

  “Sure,” Murph said. “Okay if I put the names in a margin, on a copy?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work.”

  They were in Hastings office alone and the door was closed. Hastings said, “Murph? I never met Lem Richards. What do you think of him?” Hastings wanted to know if Rhodes’s friendship with the man had affected his judgment.

  “I worked patrol with him a few years ago. He was all right. You know he’s black, don’t you?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Well, Howard’s not the kind who talks up a guy just because he’s a brother.”

  “I know that.” Hastings knew Murph and Howard were close friends. Maybe even best friends. Which may have been unusual as Murph was raised by parents who had been overtly racist. But then police work often forged surprising bonds.

  Murph said, “I remember one time, on patrol, we arrested this cracker fuckhead on a domestic assault. Your garden variety white bad ass. Tattoos everywhere, no shirt on, you know the type. He fought us and we had to pile on him and do a joint rodeo style calf roping on him. Which was kind of fun. Got him tied up and left him on the ground there for a while, flopping like a fish. Give him time to let him adjust his attitude. Anyway, I think there were about five of us. And the only black officer was Lem. So naturally, to this cracker, it’s all Lem’s fault. We get him back to the station and set him on the bench in the booking area and then he starts trying to incite the other prisoners to riot. ‘Fuck these motherfuckers! Fuck em’!’ Blah, blah, blah. So one of the other prisoners, another white guy, he starts trying to fight Lem. And then the cracker starts trying to egg him on, saying, ‘Yeah! Yeah! UAB, man! UAB!’ But Lem restrains him pretty easily, gets him under control. Then Lem walks over to the cracker, knowing full well that UAB means ‘United Aryan Brotherhood’ and Lem says, ‘What’s this UAB shit?’ And the cracker says, ‘Oh, I just meant you’re all right, brother.’ Or some nonsense. Fucking punk.”

  “Lem mess with him after that?”

  “No, Lem was pretty professional about it. Probably more than I would have been. You could tell the guy was just aching to say nigger, but didn’t have the balls. Lem just wanted to call him out, show the other prisoners that the guy was a coward. It seemed to work.”

  “I see. So you’d respect Lem’s opinion?”

  “Well…I never worked homicide with him, so that’s kind of hard for me to answer. But I’ve worked a lot of cases with Howard. And I know his instincts are good.”

  “Okay, Murph. Thanks.”

  Sammy Davis Jr. was singing If They Could See Me Now as a group of ten year old girls in tights tapped around on a dance floor. They were a little awkward and not in step with each other and it made Hastings think of Amy when she was that age. Eileen had enrolled her in dance class then, but it hadn’t taken Amy long to figure out it wasn’t for her. She started playing basketball the next year. Hastings remembered now that he and Eileen and he had split the cost of the dance lessons even though they were already divorced. Dance lessons were cheaper than private schools.

  An attractive woman with a trim figure was instructing the girls, using a firm, clear voice. She noticed the girls looking beyond h
er and she turned around.

  Hastings waved to her, signaling that he didn’t wish to interrupt.

  She was older than he had thought. Maybe even sixty, to look at her hands and face. But an attractive face and a very nice figure.

  She walked over to him and said, “Are you the detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got about ten minutes of class left. Do you mind waiting?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  He went outside. The dance studio was in the Central West End. He saw SUVs and mini-vans lined up, women inside waiting to pick up their daughters. A few minutes later, the first of the girls came out and Hastings went back in.

  The dance instructor put a cardigan on over her leotards and extended her hand to Hastings.

  “Joan Adelson.”

  She was a little lady. One hundred ten pounds at most, but her grip was strong and sure.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.” He showed her his police identification. They had spoken briefly on the telephone before, but he felt he should give identification in a place with so many children around. Joan Adelson glanced at it and looked back at him as if he were being a little too official.

  She said, “What can I do for you?”

  “You own a house by Lake of the Ozarks. There was a body found floating there and we’re trying to find out if anyone in that neighborhood knew him.”

  “Oh, my. Was there a murder?”

  “We believe there may have been, yes.”

  “Who was it?”

  “His name was Johnny Rodgers. He was a hairdresser from St. Louis. Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Where do you get your hair done?”

  “Pardon?”

  “He was a hairdresser here. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t a customer of his.”

  The lady eyed him for a second. Not hiding anything. She said, “I get my hair done at Denise St. Clair’s in Clayton. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine,” Hastings said, smiling.

  “I hope so. Am I suspected of killing this person?”

  “I doubt it. When was the last time you were at the lake house?”