Hailey's Hog

by Andrew Draper

  “Admit what you did to me!” she said, voice now trembling. “And…and…I want the names of the others.”

  “I didn’t rape you, you fucking psycho!”

  “Just say it!” she raged, her face now cherry red with fury, heartbeat hammering in her ears, “Be a man for once!”

  “Fuck off!” he grimaced, the pain from his wound again wracking his body.

  “Tell the truth,” she ordered as she cocked the hammer back. “Or I swear to God, I’ll kill you right now!”

  He tensed in a momentary twinge of fear. “You want the truth?” he screeched, “I do remember you now. You and your prick-teasing friends! You…”

  The last rational connection between her finger and her brain snapped like a matchstick. Red veil now blinding her completely, she involuntarily squeezed the trigger. Piercing the red bubble, the second blast shook the night, its concussive echoes bouncing off the jagged rocks, racing into the distance.

  She watched in a spilt-second of morbid fascination as a small crater erupted on Stone’s forehead while the back of his skull disintegrated in a crimson shower of blood and bone. The explosion of gray matter made the insult the last thing to come out of his mouth. His now-lifeless body fell back like a sack of grain, the shattered skull striking the ground with a wet slap.

  Trance snapped, she watched in abject horror as red gore ran in rivulets down the boulders behind Stone’s corpse. Her tortured stomach, finally reaching its limit, mutinied at the gruesome sight. She fell to her knees and vomited. The harsh contractions shook her body, the cast-out whiskey mixing with the pool of blood in the dirt.

  Still reeling in shock and pain, she finally pulled herself up and took several deep breaths to steady her shattered nerves. Reaching an uncontrollably trembling hand into her vest pocket, she removed the Queen of Clubs and dropped it on the dead man’s chest.

  Composing herself at last, she turned away from the horrific scene. She continued to breathe deeply and began an unsteady walk back down the trail. She mechanically put one foot in front of the other, her brain completely off-line, shut down by the emotional overload.

  In the distance she heard a coyote, the mournful howl rolling down the canyon before disappearing in the pervasive stillness of the night. The very loneliness of the sound permeated her bones, chilling her in spite of the oppressive heat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Smith stared at the clock sitting on his desk, noting his frustration at the case caused the hands to appear as if they had ground to a halt. He reached for a previously forgotten cup of coffee and raised it to his lips, finding it now cold and bitter. Yecch. He set it back down and pushed it out of his way.

  A student, good grades, popular, star athlete. What gets a guy like this killed? There’s obviously something here that I’m not seeing.

  He briefly considered the scenarios where Grady may have walked into that alley his own.

  He did have that pot on him, maybe he went to score some more.

  The thought rattled around in Smith’s head as he poured over notes on the abbreviated phone conversation with Senator Grady.

  “My son’s an adult, Detective Smith,” Grady had informed him. “He has…had… his life in Tucson and his mother and I have ours here in Washington.”

  Smith got a sense that a significant emotional distance existed between the two men as he replayed the conversation in his mind.

  “I haven’t talked to him in a week, but he may have spoken to his mother. I’ll ask her and get back to you.”

  After the lecture he got from the Chief, Smith didn’t really hold out much hope for that conversation.

  Frustration pestering him like swarming gnats, he went through the phone logs on Grady’s cell for the second time, noting that all of the numbers could be accounted for between school and sports. He threw the list back on the desk in annoyance.

  Several hours went by as he read and re-read the reports and evidence lists. Finally, Smith sat back in his chair and scrubbed his face in his hands, contemplating the case file spread out on his desk. The pictures and reports seemed to swim before his weary eyes, mocking him. Nothing fits, nothing leads anywhere. I need a break.

  He could feel the white concrete walls closing in, the useless frustration eating away at him as he reviewed the evidence report for the umpteenth time. He ticked off the clues they did have on the mental list that kept repeating in his head.

  One steel nine millimeter casing, cheap Russian brand, commonly available, no prints.

  Slug from alley fence, also nine millimeter, smashed, unmatchable.

  No security tapes.

  Jeep in the lot.

  Small amount of marijuana on his person, pipe for same.

  He reviewed the coroner’s report…again, the words offering no more inspiration than they did two hours ago.

  Trace found no hair or fibers on the body.

  No robbery, no defensive wounds, nothing to point in any direction. Nothing to indicate any kind of motive.

  He also knew several bags of evidence were sitting at the lab, still untouched. He didn’t hold out much hope that any real help lay inside.

  Somebody just walked up to him in the parking lot, pulled him into the alley at gunpoint, shot him and left. Why?

  He struggled with the mental shell game that would lead to a motive. He had immediately ruled robbery out, with Grady’s wallet recovered intact.

  What would cause someone to put a bullet in this man? He didn’t have any enemies that I can find.

  He stared at the playing card in its transparent bag,

  One print, no matches…also no help.

  Turning the plastic bag containing the small piece of laminated paper over in his hand, the Queen’s face remained unchanged. Her expression taunting, she seemed to laugh at him, refusing to relinquish her secrets.

  Irritation, compounded by frustration, finally turned to inaction. He sat back, briefly stared at the picture of his “soon to be ex” wife Cassie and their young son and sighed. He picked up the frame, the small image now feeling heavy in his hand.

  Pushing his chair away from his desk, he slumped, shoulders sagging in fatigue. God, I miss Matthew…I miss you both.

  He contemplated the beautiful woman looking back from the photograph. He knew, deep inside, that he’d failed her. When their son died, he’d shut himself off from her, from everything but his work. When she needed him, he wasn’t there, physically or emotionally, to support her through her grief.

  He still cringed at the memory of that radio call. He was on a case, as usual, when the dispatcher’s voice alerted him to the accident. The woman on the other side of the radio could barely get the words out.

  “John, Cassie was involved in a 963 (emergency service-speak for a fatality) on Speedway at Alvernon. You need to get there right away.”

  He had arrived at the scene minutes later, only to find his wife’s Toyota shattered, the broken pieces spread across the intersection.

  Cassie had suffered a broken arm and a mild concussion, but Matthew was gone, his tiny, five year-old body broken by the drunken driver’s callous indifference.

  Devastated beyond rational thought, his own sense of loss and guilt had overwhelmed him. He was so consumed by his own dark feelings that he had nothing left to give the one person who needed him most. I’m so sorry, Cassie.

  He loved his wife deeply, but that didn’t seem to matter to her anymore. She had filed for divorce several weeks ago. The papers now sat ignored in the center drawer of his desk.

  In the corner of his eye he spied a blur of motion in the squad room, snapping him out of his reverie. The large form captured his attention as it solidified into Chief Dan Matarski’s bulbous shape. He sighed as he saw Matarski, complete with coffee and doughnut in hand, heading right for him. Shit!

  Matarski stopped in the doorway. Standing right at six feet tall, he filled the frame.

  “What’s the status on the Grady case?” he asked, sipping the steami
ng coffee from a ceramic mug.

  Smith constructed his response carefully, not wanting to start off the day by getting his ass chewed…again. He opted for omission as a minor diversion to buy some time.

  “Well Chief, I’m working on several leads. I’ll have an update for you by tomorrow.”

  Smith steeled himself for the inevitable backlash, and wasn’t disappointed as the older man’s voice bounced off the ceiling while his face reddened, taking on the appearance of an over-ripe tomato.

  “Not good enough! You know that Grady’s father is Senator Grady,” he spoke matter-of-factly, moving to pace the room in front of Smith’s desk. “I also got a call from the Mayor this morning, telling me his Honor isn’t very happy that we don’t have a suspect yet, and the press is crawling up my ass with a magnifying glass. I need to tell them something today.”

  Smith winced, this was the part of his job he hated the most, the politics. The very idea of it grated on his senses and came up raw in his throat. Police work is supposed to be about public service and protection, not politics.

  “Sorry, Chief. I’ll get you something as soon as I can.”

  Matarski paused for several seconds, appearing to consider Smith’s response. “Well…Um…good then,” he said. “Make sure I have it on my desk before the council meeting at three. Also, no one talks to the media. No exceptions. Got it?”

  “Yes, I got it.”

  “Good.” Spinning on his heel, Matarski strode resolutely out the door. Smith’s gaze bored into his superior’s retreating back. Asshole!

  The phone rang, snapping his concentration. He lifted it to his ear, hearing the hollow tones of a cell phone call.

  “Yes, this is Detective John Smith,” he said into the receiver.

  “Yes, I put out that request.” He paused to again listen to the voice on the other end.

  “You do? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He quickly scribbled the address on a notepad as the voice went on. He placed the handset back in the cradle, rubbing his eyes in fatigue. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said to the otherwise-empty office, remembering his latest plea for a lead. “You may get it.”

  Rising from his chair, he reached in his desk drawer and withdrew his sidearm. Dropping the clip into his hand, he checked the load out of habit before sliding it into the holster on his hip. Grabbing the Stetson from a nearby chair, he donned the hat and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Passing Phoenix, Smith pointed his department-issue Crown Victoria north on Interstate 17, listening as the air conditioning wheezed in a pitched battle against the staggering heat.

  Located near Black Canyon City, High Desert Park sits on 90 acres of parched scrub brush and cactus. The desolate area rests both geographically and aesthetically between the urban sprawl of Phoenix and the quiet, pastoral solitude of Flagstaff.

  He drove up the steep driveway and turned left into the main parking area.

  The grounds primarily consist of a few man-made walking paths meandering between the various flora and fauna of the harsh landscape native to central and southern Arizona. Just about the only indigenous inhabitants there are the rattlesnakes, scorpions and the occasional tarantula. Everything that lives there either bites, stings or is covered in thorns. Smith mentally cataloged it as the textbook definition of ‘hostile environment’ police manuals talk about.

  Tires crunching in the gravel, he took in the utter desolation of the terrain, making his way past the marked cars to the edge of the crime scene tape.

  No one should die here. He thought, leaving the relative comfort of his air-conditioned ride and stepping out into the triple-digit heat of another brilliant summer day.

  Flashing his badge, he approached the officer guarding the perimeter.

  “John Smith, Tucson Police. I’m looking for Deputy Mendoza.”

  The officer pointed to a white Chevy SUV a few yards to Smith’s left, its police markings vibrant in the afternoon sun. He saw a large Hispanic man in uniform leaning on the hood of the SUV.

  “You Smith?” the man asked as he walked forward, closing the distance.

  “John Smith, Tucson Police. You Mendoza?”

  The man held out his hand. “Hector Mendoza, Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office, nice to meet you.”

  Smith shook his fellow officer’s hand with a firm grip. “What have you got?”

  “Homicide victim. Driver’s license says he’s Jake Stone, 26, from Phoenix.”

  “Why call me?”

  “You put out the wire asking about playing cards you found at one of your scenes, right?”

  “I did.”

  He gave Smith an evidence bag.

  “Recognize it?” Mendoza asked. “We found this on the victim’s body.”

  Smith turned over the bag and the Queen of Clubs stared back at him from inside, her gaily colored robes smeared with dried blood.

  Smith pulled a copy of the card from the Grady case file and checked the pattern on the front. They seem to be a match.

  “Christ!” he said, his face suddenly sagging.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been a cop almost 19 years. I’d hoped to retire without ever seeing one of these.” He said, handing the evidence bag back to the other officer.

  “One of what?” Mendoza asked, re-examining the card for something he might have missed.

  “A serial killer.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Mendoza whispered, then shook his head in reluctant acceptance. “Is he yours or mine?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think he’s mine,” Smith said. “I checked the database before I came and there aren’t any other open cases in Arizona that fit the profile.”

  “Until now.” Mendoza said with a sigh.

  “Until now,” Smith conceded. “Cause of death?”

  “Looks like two slugs, one in the knee and one in the forehead.”

  “Shell casings?”

  “We didn’t find any,”

  “Body dump?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t think so. The amount of blood indicates that he was shot here.”

  Smith nodded in understanding, already beginning to sweat, moisture congealing on his forehead and dampening his shirt.

  “We also have two sets of footprints and there was a half-empty flask on the body, had traces of lipstick on it,” Mendoza said. “Looks like he picked up a woman at the bar and brought her here.”

  “So, he came up here to get lucky and ended up getting dead,” Smith said. “Random shooting maybe, wrong place, wrong time?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Mendoza said. “Until I saw the card.”

  “Any leads?”

  “We’ll run everything for prints and DNA, see if we get a hit. But that takes time.”

  “And for now?” Smith asked.

  “Uniforms found his motorcycle back at the Rock Springs Cantina. The bartender is waiting for us.”

  “How do you want to handle it?” Smith said.

  “Well,” Mendoza started, “Usually we would work these cases separately, but those playing cards tell me they’re related. Don’t you think so?

  “I do.”

  “Good. I’m glad we agree.”

  “Now, how about your Sheriff, he wouldn’t be opposed to a little ‘information sharing’, would he?”

  Mendoza smiled a sly little grin. “It’s always easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.”

  Now it was Smith’s turn to smile. “Let’s go talk to the bartender.”

  Leaving the dusty confines of the sun-drenched park in Smith’s car, the two detectives drove back to the bar. They rode in the heat, air conditioning working overtime.

  Mendoza broke the silence. “We get these up here from time to time.”

  “Get what?”

  “Bodies. This corridor along I-17 has been a dumping ground for stiffs for decades. Every time the drug wars in Phoenix heat up, we start finding them.”

  Smith turned to look
at Mendoza, questioning in his expression.

  “But this doesn’t fit the profile of drug-related violence,” Mendoza continued. “The vic didn’t have any previous arrests for dealing or ties to known dealers or gangs.”

  “My guy didn’t have any thing like that either, but I did find a small amount of marijuana on his body.” Smith said.

  “Okay. So, it doesn’t seem likely but we can’t overlook it either,” Mendoza went on. “Most of the crime in this county is either directly or indirectly tied to the drug trade. In the absence of other evidence, I tend to look there first. It seems to be a considerable time saver.”

  They arrived at the cafe, entering the darkness from the incandescent sunlight outside. The two detectives made their way toward the bar on the far side of the room. The rock music played from the speakers, quietly filling the dimly lit establishment with the sounds of guitars and drums. Mendoza approached the bartender and identified Smith and himself.

  “Did you see this guy in here last night?” he asked, holding out his cell phone, a picture of Stone on the screen, his face pasty in death. The bartender, his balding head slick with sweat, stopped polishing the glass in his hand long enough to get a brief look at the small image.

  “He drove that motorcycle outside.” Mendoza added.

  “Yeah, he was here,” the man said, shrugging his shoulders. “There was a big run yesterday. A lot of bikers stopped in here. He drank and shot pool, same as everybody else.”

  “Did you see if he was with a woman?” Smith asked in cautious tones. “Maybe left with her.”

  “We had a shit-load of people in here last night. I can’t keep track of them all,” he said. “Only reason I remember him is because of the Triumph patch on his vest. Usually it’s all Harley stuff.”

  “Can you tell us about what time he left?” Mendoza said.

  “Not really. Sorry.”

  “I suppose a surveillance tape is too much to ask for.” Mendoza continued, the offhand remark garnering a derisive look from the man behind the bar.