“What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a large coffee. Not a latte, not a mocha frappa-whatever the hell they are, just a regular coffee…Please.”
Eyes wide, the shocked girl pulled a cup from the stack next to the register. “One large brewed coffee. Yes, sir.”
Machine next to him emitting a sound akin to a steam whistle, she made his drink and turned back to him, hesitantly handing the cup over the counter. “Here you are sir.”
“Sorry, long night.” He apologized, giving her a sheepish look. “Thank you.”
Eying the pastry case next to the register, she went for the add-on sale.
“How about a dough…” she stopped in mid-word seeing the gold shield and the gun hanging from his belt. “Umm…anything else?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Comes to two-fifty.” she punched the register keys.
He gave her a five.
“Thank you,” she said. “Please come again.”
She handed him his change and he dropped the two singles into a jar marked ‘Tips’.
“I promise not to be an ass next time.”
She smiled. “Have a nice day.”
He walked toward the door, still chastising himself for his unnecessary rudeness.
Back in his car, he dodged the heavy mid-day traffic, taking Campbell Road south to the edge of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Arriving at the address dispatch gave him; he knew something was wrong before he ever got out of the car.
He drew a tense breath as he saw the reporters lining the road between the parking spaces and the yellow tape at the far end of the lot. Smith eyed the journalists with suspicion. That’s a lot of media attention for an alley shooting. He thought, moving closer to the undulating mob. This can’t be good.
He elbowed his way through a raucous herd of T.V. and newspaper crews,e H pushing the microphones out of his face as he fielded a barrage of questions, constantly repeating “no comment”. Removing a weather-beaten tan Stetson from his head, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a plain white handkerchief, replaced the hat and moved toward the hubbub of activity on the other side of the boiling mass of reporters.
Flashes bounced off his eyes, popping in quick succession as a dozen photographers from local and national print publications strained at the police barrier. Grumbling as they snapped what images they could get, several complained about their intentionally obscured, photographically useless staging area. Smith ignored their pleas as he passed by.
Folding his 6-foot, 3-inch frame under the thin strip of bright yellow tape, he approached the uniformed officer guarding the perimeter at the end of the alley. He eyed the baby-faced rookie and pointed to the badge clipped to his belt. “Detective John Smith, and before you ask, yes, it’s my real name.” he said, taking the crime scene logbook and signing his name in the appropriate place.
Looking around, Smith found the alley behind Johnny B’s Cabaret much like he expected. Dirt-encrusted stucco walls lined the one-hundred and fifty yards of trash-filled space. Bright colors splashed the walls along its length, the graffiti blaring a message of hatred in graphic images and profane words. The rank odor of rotting garbage suddenly assaulted his nostrils, causing his already sour stomach to rise to his throat. Dumpsters at 110 degrees, nothing smells quite like it.
Noticing the activity deeper in the cramped confines, he spotted the rest of the Crime Scene Response Team among the abandoned tires and piles of refuse congesting the alley’s far end. He worked his way toward them, stepping over the trash. Moving forward to dodge the final obstacle, he circled the burned-out hulk of an ancient sedan, its rusting carcass picked clean long ago.
He stood beside the Crime Scene Investigations unit officer. “What do we have?” he asked the shorter, balding man who was already sweating in the early afternoon heat.
“A real ‘Charlie-Foxtrot’, John.” The evidence expert answered, citing the standard military acronym for things that couldn’t possibly get any more screwed up. “The deceased is Jason Grady, son of Senator Dennis Grady.”
“No shit?” Smith asked.
“No shit. The Senator has been notified.”
“Just perfect!” Smith opined with a half-hearted smile, unwrapping a piece of chewing gum and sliding it into his mouth. “I picked a hell of a week to quit smoking.”
Stifling a chuckle, the sergeant started to run down the list of relevant information.
Smith interrupted. “Who discovered the body?”
“One of the bar-backs found Grady near the dumpsters about 10:15 this morning.”
Smith walked with the other officer further into the blighted alley. Passing the rear door of the club, the pair approached the screen wall hiding the dumpsters. Stepping beyond the end of the wall, Smith saw the outlined corpse laying face down, another misshapen lump among the refuse. Who did this to you…and why? He wondered.
Smith paused for a minute, examining the scene and fixing it in his memory. Taking a quick look around, the detective noted the narrow area was also dotted with discarded furniture and other junk that probably had nothing to do with his case. Damn! A high-profile victim in a contaminated scene. Nice way to start the day.
He saw the ground around the body was covered with a black skin of rancid slime, still glistening in the bright sunlight. Spillage from the dumpster? Maybe. He saw a technician taking a sample and bagging it. He stuck his head over the rim, looking inside the malodorous steel box, getting a quick glance before his nose could stand no more. It was empty.
“Any witnesses?” he asked.
“None so far, but we’re still canvassing the area.”
“Good. Let me know if anything turns up.”
Upon a first, cursory inspection of the deceased, Smith discovered he didn’t need to be a doctor to know the cause of death. The ragged hole in the victim’s left shoulder blade and a black pool of congealed blood under the body told the 18-year Tucson Police Department veteran how this particular victim met his end.
The older officer held up two small plastic evidence bags, one containing a shell casing, the other held a blood-soaked playing card.
“I found the shell casing next to the body, and we’re digging a slug out of the gate over there,” he said, pointing to the far end of the street. “And this playing card was lying on his back.”
He handed both bags to the detective. “The Queen of Spades. It mean anything to you?”
“Not yet,” Smith replied. “This all you found?”
“That’s it,” the officer confirmed. “Rest of the scene is full of what looks like unrelated trash, but we’re photographing and bagging it anyway, just in case.”
“That ought to make the lab guys happy,” he said, sarcasm evident in this voice. “Also, I noticed that dumpster looks like it was just emptied. Call the company and find out where the load went.”
“I’m on it.”
Ignoring the assistant taking photos of the scene, Smith turned toward a fourth man, his back bent, carefully examining the body.
“Talk to me Doc, what do you have?” he asked the Medical Examiner.
An indifferent grunt came from the man kneeling beside Grady’s corpse. Dr. William “Will” Jaco took a deep breath. Rubber gloves stretched over his thin fingers, the dark-haired, forty-ish man looked up just long enough to acknowledge Smith.
“Well, cause of death, in case you didn’t guess, appears to be a single gunshot wound to the chest,” he said. “Liver temp puts time of death between 8 p.m. and midnight last night. I can’t get closer on the time because of the heat.”
“Anything else?” Smith asked.
“Not until I get him back to the lab,” Jaco said. “I’ll call you as soon as I have anything.”
“Thanks,” Smith acknowledged, moving away, leaving the doctor to this grisly task.
Smith returned his gaze to the body as he spoke to the CSU officer. “Do we have anything that would indicate a motive? What about his wallet, watch, that s
tuff?”
The officer consulted a clipboard in his hand before answering. “The victim’s watch and wallet, complete with credit cards and about $200 in cash, were on the body. We bagged it all for the lab guys.”
They heard a clattering of metal and the conversing pair stepped aside as the Paramedics brought in a gurney, waiting patiently for the doctor to finish.
“One more thing,” the CSU said, again consulting his notes. “We found a small amount of Marijuana and some paraphernalia in his jeep. You know; a pipe, pack of rolling papers, that stuff. Nothing major, but I thought you should know.
“Doc?” Smith said, turning back to the Medical Examiner, now carefully placing plastic bags over the victim’s hands and feet, preserving any trace evidence. “You get that?”
“I’ll run a standard toxicology and a drug panel.” Jaco said as he now lifted Grady’s corpse into a body bag.
“Thank you.” Smith said.
A few minutes later Jaco gave the paramedics a wave of his hand “He’s all yours boys. Let’s get him back to the lab.”
They snapped into action, lifting Grady onto the stretcher with military precision, they zipped the body bag closed and rolled the corpse to the waiting ambulance.
Chapter Six
Hailey rolled her eyes as the reality show’s insipid dialog softly emanated from the television across the room.
Deciding that these new programs demeaned the intelligence of the average two-year old, she sipped her coffee and continued to channel surf as the early morning sun drifted in through the open windows. She settled on the state’s headline news channel.
What is this crap, 190 channels and nothing on… nothing worth watching anyway.
She sat back on the sofa, momentarily ignoring the set while trying to quiet the pounding in her head. She yawned and stretched, curling her legs up underneath her in a useless attempt to relieve her aching muscles. She realized her body still hadn’t recovered from the events in Tucson and the long ride home.
Standing with a small groan of pain, she slowly moved to the kitchen for a refill, the television’s constant din in the background of her disconnected thoughts. Suddenly the voice of the bleach-blond anchorwoman penetrated her alcohol-induced brain cloud.
“A story out of Tucson up next. Police officials are now saying that last night’s shooting death of U.S. Senator Dennis Grady’s son is being investigated as a homicide.”
She wheeled around to face the set, nearly dropping the coffee pot in the sink as the anchor continued.
“For those of you just joining us, a source close to the investigation said Jason Grady, 23, was walking into a South Tucson night club at about 9:30 last night when he was gunned down. Police wouldn’t speculate on a motive for the shooting. Grady, the starting pitcher for the U of A Wildcats, led them to a division title in 2007 and a national championship in 2008.”
She stared frozen as the talking head continued. “At this hour, police are still at the scene. Stay tuned throughout the day as our team coverage of this senseless tragedy continues.”
Staring at the set with unflinching focus, her blood suddenly went cold in her veins. “The shell. Shit! I left the dammed shell in the alley
She suddenly had a vision of the police cars surrounding her apartment, sirens wailing. She could almost hear the pounding on the door. She could already feel the cold steel of the handcuffs as the unyielding, faceless officers bound her wrists. The thought of jail terrified the young woman.
I didn’t go there to kill him. I just wanted him to tell the truth, just admit what he did to me. But, no jury is ever going to believe that. Hell, I wouldn’t believe it…and I was there.
Once again, her mind raced forward, the domino effect saturating her thinking with dozens of scenarios, all bad.
In her fear-fogged brain she created the stuffy confines of the courtroom. She saw herself standing at the defendant’s table, faceless lawyer at her side, while the judge pronounced sentence. She could hear his voice, she saw the gavel fall as he dealt a death-blow to her freedom…to her life.
She shook her head, forcing the visions to stop. She stalked around her apartment, willing the emotions running through her head to go away…to no avail.
Being a fan of T.V. crime shows, she berated herself for forgetting something as elementary as a spent shell. She knew the casing would be the cornerstone of physical evidence in any police investigation.
Her fears returned, telling her she had thrown away what was left of her damaged life by this brutal crime.
How could I have done something so stupid? I have to get rid of the gun.
Thinking a hot shower might help calm her jangled nerves, she made her way to the bathroom. Head still throbbing, she noticed last night’s bottle of Jose Cuervo now lying empty under the coffee table. She picked it up, taking in the colorful label before dropping it in the trash. Tequila really is evil.
Stepping under the flowing water, she mulled over what Grady said to her in those last, terrible moments in the dingy alley.
Why would he think I’d want to have sex with four complete strangers? She turned the question over in head, examining it from all angles. Did I do something to make them think I wanted to be brutalized that way? Was all this somehow my fault? I guess it could be. Her stomach knotted in rebellion, the idea resisting her attempts at instant analysis. But I don’t see how. The notion plagued her while she drove to her class, parking in the lot at Yavapai Community College.
Her English Lit. Professor paced in front of his students, droning on in a review of Friday’s boring lecture on Renaissance-era poetry.
Having to take summer classes at all irked the young woman to no end. After carrying a 3.85 grade-point average for the past four semesters, she dropped out before classes even really started last fall.
I just couldn’t sit in class like nothing happened. Everyone was staring, like they knew I’d been raped…judging me…or worse, pitying me.
When the teacher’s back was turned, a handsome young man sitting ahead one seat and one row to the left passed her a flyer. She read the colorful advertisement announcing her favorite local band, “Double Trouble”, was playing at one of the Whiskey Row bars on Saturday night. Maybe I’ll go, if I feel up to it.
Hailey, the student, had a test the following Monday and would stay home and study, but Hailey, the biker, would not miss that show. She had, subconsciously, already made the decision.
Monday through Friday, Hailey, the student, hid behind her books, throwing herself into her classes to the exclusion of all else. Her classmates still thought she was just a simple, painfully shy college co-ed, but that version of Hailey was becoming more and more a well-perpetrated fraud. They didn’t know the new Hailey, her alter ego emerging as soon as she donned leather and denim.
Hailey, the biker, spent her week-ends riding the roads of Yavapai County like a female version of John Wayne. With the iron horse thundering between her legs, the new Hailey was empowered, confident and strong. Everything the old Hailey was not.
Now safely back at her apartment, she tapped away at the computer’s keyboard. The information Grady provided had proved helpful, and her being computer savvy made finding the T.O.A.’s website a three-minute project. Clicking on the bookmark, she stared for long seconds at the homepage. Smack in the middle of the usual pop-ups and blinking emoticons, she saw another of the monsters looking back at her from the screen. The photo accompanying the full page article showed a young man, his short beard groomed to a point, sitting on his 66’ Bonneville chopper. Astride his lap sat the standard-issue silicone blond, her assets prominently displayed in a thong bikini, her hair in complicated swirls.
Hailey read the announcement for a charity fun run as it flashed across the screen in a scrolling banner. Bingo, that’s where he’ll be.
Chapter Seven
Smith sat at his desk, thoughts twisting in frustration, computer keys clicking away as he hammered out the preliminary report on the
Grady homicide.
Nothing makes sense. No defensive wounds, no apparent robbery. Why is this guy dead? Who did he piss off enough to kill him?
Nicotine cravings surging through him, he popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth, the third of the morning. Fighting the urge to go outside for a smoke, he chewed quickly and waited for some kind of calming effect to manifest itself. It never did. This is not working. I need a cigarette!
Smith’s desk phone chirped, electronic signal breaking his concentration.
Now what? He reached for the receiver.
“John, its Dan.”
He grimaced in recognition of Police Chief Dan Matarski’s bass voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, Chief?”
“I’ll get right to the point. This Grady case, it’s special. I know you’re used to me giving you a lot of leeway to work your cases, doing things your own way, but the Grady case is different. You need to be very careful on this one.”
He baited the Chief. “Why should this one be any different than any other homicide case?”
“I don’t think I need to remind you of what happened on your last homicide case, do I?”
Smith bristled in irritation, knowing the Chief was right. He’d screwed up on his last case, failing to anticipate the killer’s moves, and took a bullet for his trouble.
The Chief ignored his question. “Is the preliminary report finished? I want to see it ASAP.” he said.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, you know dammed well this is different. This case needs to be handled just right. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you. This case is drawing attention from the highest levels.”
“Just because it involves Senator Grady’s son?”
“Dammed straight. We have to be careful about the perception we project.”
“Perception? That’s politics. I deal in reality. A man is dead, that’s as real as it gets in my world.” Smith said in annoyance.
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