Hailey's Hog

by Andrew Draper

  “What run?” Smith asked.

  “Rackley was going on the Whiskey Row Fun Run on the fourth,” Mendoza said. “Told me his club goes every year.”

  “He belongs to a club?” Smith asked.

  “Triumph Owners of Arizona, small club out of Prescott. Sound familiar?”

  “Triumph Owners of Arizona, wasn’t that the tag Stone was wearing?” Smith asked. “The one the bartender mentioned.”

  “And everybody says the heat in Tucson rots your brain.” Mendoza said with a little chuckle.

  “Read me the summary on the Barrow case again, please.” Smith asked.

  Mendoza read from the file. “According to the report, she was walking north on Montezuma just before midnight when four men, one armed with a knife, grabbed her and forced her into a secluded alleyway. These four proceeded to take turns sexually assaulting her for over an hour, before they got spooked and ran away.”

  Smith’s sharp intake of breath cut the air. “Jesus Christ, that poor girl’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Did the detective on the original case get sketches of Barrow’s assailants?” he asked.

  Mendoza ran an index finger down the report. “Victim couldn’t do a sketch. She said the alley was pitch black… and she was very intoxicated. Her blood alcohol level was something like .165, for someone her weight, that’s pretty wrecked.”

  Mendoza continued. “She may have been too drunk to make a positive I.D., but it’s definitely not a stretch to think that all four men came from the same club. Finally, some things are starting to add up.”

  Smith scratched his chin. “They raped her and now she’s picking them off one by one,” Smith said. “According to the CODIS report, she’s still got one more assailant left to track down.”

  Mendoza continued reading aloud. “She said in her statement that these bastards kept taunting her, calling her ‘Queeney’ while they worked her over,” he lifted his eyes from the report. “With that knife at her throat, she was too scared to even scream. The fact that she didn’t resist is probably what saved her life.”

  Smith sighed in acknowledgment. “Well, that explains the playing cards. That seals it. It has to be this Barrow woman,” he shook his head in disbelief. “How can you do that to another person?”

  The two stood in silence for several seconds, each digesting their own thoughts on the raw, animal brutality they now knew these men had visited on an innocent girl in some dark and filthy alley.

  “She’s going to track this fourth guy down,” Smith said, breaking the silence. “She found the others, she’ll find this one.”

  “And we have to find her first.” Mendoza completed Smith’s thought.

  “Assuming she hasn’t found him already,” Smith opined. “Maybe we can collar this asshole before she puts a bullet in him.”

  Mendoza gave Smith a sideways look. “I know we have to protect this guy from her,” he said, disgust evident in his words. “But just once, I’d like to see the punishment fit the crime.” He made a sniping, scissors motion with his fingers.

  “You know that’s not our job,” Smith said. “That’s a job for a judge and jury.”

  “I know, but it’s fun to think about sometimes.” Mendoza grinned. Smith joined him. “Agreed.”

  “Well, the BOLO is out,” Smith said, referring to the standard “Be On the Look Out for” notice sent out to patrol officers on the streets. “And you have a unit watching her apartment.”

  “We can’t wait for her to come to us,” Mendoza said. “We have to get ahead of her.”

  “We need to know where and when that club meets next,” Smith said. “That’s where she’ll be.”

  Five minutes on the internet and the two officers had the address for the T.O.A.

  “James Kingston, Club President. He lives right here in Prescott,” Mendoza said. “But we have to be careful. He could be our fourth player.”

  The two took Smith’s car up Copper Basin road almost to the end. Surrounded by the lush expanse of the Prescott National Forest, the heavily wooded area embodied a nature lovers dream. Smith enjoyed the contrast of the tall pines passing by his window compared to the arid desert beauty surrounding his Tucson home.

  Stopping before a large log cabin, the two men got out and made their way between the tall trees toward the front door. Smith rang the bell several times with no response. The pair were about to leave when the sound of an engine starting echoed in the forest silence.

  Following the sound, they walked toward the rear of the property, stopping at the large detached garage set in the back corner. Smith noted the building’s facade featured a pair of double doors, one rolled half way up. He looked inside, seeing a man leaning over a motorcycle strapped to a raised platform several feet off the ground. Checking the rest of the garage, Smith took in the décor of the well-equipped shop. The walls were covered with the expected assortment of motorcycle photos and spare parts as well as a prominently displayed calendar of big-breasted, bikini-clad woman he noticed tacked to the wall.

  The man working on the bike appeared to be in his fifties, his graying hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. A series of colorful tattoos adorned every inch of his shirtless upper body. The gothic mural of skulls and chains draped across his back, running from his shoulders down his wiry arms to end at his wrists.

  The bike’s engine roared with gusto as he snapped the throttle again and again, the mechanical din approaching an ear-shattering volume.

  “Hello!” Smith shouted loudly during a lull in the noise. Looking back over his shoulder, the man acknowledged them with a nod of his head. He shut off the engine, the racket disappearing immediately. “Can I help you?” The bearded man answered.

  “James Kingston, President of the Triumph Owners of Arizona?” Mendoza asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  Smith and Mendoza introduced themselves and Kingston invited them into his office, snatching up his tee shirt from a work bench as they passed. Stepping through a doorway in the dividing wall, they entered a small room, the upscale furniture rustic with a heavy western overtone.

  “Please have a seat.” He said, indicating a pair of chairs before a small desk made from massive, natural tree branches. Kingston pulled the shirt over his head, sitting in the leather chair behind the desk. “What can I do for you?

  “I’ll get right to the point,” Smith said. “We need to get a look at your membership list and any photos of your members.”

  “I’d be happy to give you my membership list,” Kingston said, stoic expression unchanging. “Just as soon as you show me a warrant.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Mendoza groused. “We believe four members of your club raped a girl last Fourth of July and we need to find out who it was.”

  “I don’t know anything about any rape,” the man behind the desk interjected. “This is a club dedicated to enjoying the unique character of vintage English motorcycles. That’s all. We’re not outlaws.”

  “Well, some of your members don’t live by your high moral standard,” Smith said, getting a bit testy. “As a result, three of them are dead.”

  The color left Kingston’s face, turning him a pasty white. “Oh, my God! Who…how?”

  “We can’t release the names. However, we do need your help to locate a fourth man in connection with this case, for his own safety.”

  “I don’t know how much help I can be,” he said. “I can’t allow you access to club records without a warrant or some kind of court order. Our members are kinda particular about their privacy.”

  “You have another event scheduled for the Fourth of July, right?” Smith asked. “That’s two days away.”

  “Yes. We have our annual Tri-City area fun run.”

  “So all your members will be in one place at one time?”

  “Well, yes. That’s entirely possible,” Kingston replied. “It’s our biggest event of the year. Pretty much everyone shows up for it.”

  “Do you have a
list of participants from last year?” Mendoza asked.

  Silence.

  “Do you know who’s planning on coming this year?”

  “If I did, I couldn’t give it to you, not without a court order. I’m sorry, but that’s club policy,” Kingston repeated. “We have doctors, lawyers and other professionals in this club. If I gave you unauthorized access to the records, they’d sue the crap out of me.”

  “Listen Mr. Kingston,” Smith said. “We have two days to find this girl…before she finds the fourth guy and…”

  His face drawn tight in frustration, Mendoza interrupted Smith, pointing an accusing finger at Kingston. “And makes you an accessory to murder!”

  Smith knew an accessory charge would never stick, but he figured it might throw the fear of God into the man so he let it ride.

  Mendoza moved closer to the man and leaned forward to meet his eyes. “Sir, I’m going to ask one more time, then I’m going to arrest you for obstruction and three counts of accessory to murder after the fact.”

  The color drained from the man’s thin face. Obviously shaken, Kingston seemed to consider the two officers for several long seconds before answering.

  “I might be able to give you a group photo from after the run last year,” he said. “That was already posted on the website.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation.” Smith said, breathing a small sigh of relief.

  “It’ll take me a few minutes to find it, but I can print one for you,” he said. “Oh, and come to think of it, you’re welcome to look through all the shots I took of the run. In those pictures everyone’s out in public. So, no privacy issues.”

  Both detectives stood. “Thank you. That would be very helpful.” Mendoza said.

  Kingston put a CD-ROM disk into a laptop computer sitting on the desk. “Everything I have is on there.”

  About ten minutes and fifty frames into the search, Smith did a double take at one of the photos. “Hector, take a look at this.” he said.

  Mendoza glanced over Smith’s shoulder, peering at the image on the screen. The photo showed a scene inside a bar, the tables full. At one of the tables, four men sat, beer bottles strewn about them.

  “That’s Stone on the left and Rackley in the middle, I don’t know the other two,” Mendoza said.

  “I can help there. Grady is the one looking out to the right side of the picture,” he said, then pointed at the screen. “That should make this last guy bachelor number four.”

  Smith turned the laptop back toward Kingston. “What can you tell me about this man?”

  Part IV…Lead poisoning

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jesus Hoya rolled his chair away from the computer desk, leaning back and stretching his boney arms over his head. Sitting among the cannibalized carcasses of countless motorcycles and mountains of parts in his rented garage, he smiled in greedy satisfaction. The thin, wiry man smirked because he knew the deal he’d just put together would net him almost half a year’s wages. He smoothed his black goatee to a fine point under his chin, his dark Hispanic eyes sparkling at the thought of making so much money, so easily.

  Carlos swipes five bikes. We take’em apart, box’em up and ship’em to the coast. I get five grand each. Piece of cake, he openly gloated. Those rich Californians will buy anything.

  Hoya knew the recent resurgence of all things vintage, from cars to clothes, particularly English items, was now especially trendy in La-La Land. When it came to west coast Anglophiles, the growing movement represented a hill of gold just waiting to be mined. Hoya had no trouble grabbing a shovel and getting his share…or more.

  Opening the door with a loud bang, Carlos entered the garage, dropping a large cardboard box on the workbench. Hoya looked at his teen-aged “employee”. “What’s in the box?” Hoya asked, his attention already back on the screen.

  “I scored some parts for a 69’ Bonnie. A set of cases and a frame, with a clean Arizona title.” The young man said, turning his baseball cap around backwards, coming to look over Hoya’s shoulder.

  “How much did this cost me?” Hoya inquired, sarcastically.

  “Found them at a swap meet. Got ’em for practically nothing; like two-hundred for all three pieces.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “They’re perfect. The frame just needs paint, no rust or repair welds.”

  “Get at it,” he said “We can use them for the west coast deal.”

  He slid back behind the desk and began tapping the keys. “I want that frame finished by lunch.”

  The two worked in silence for several long minutes before Hoya spoke. “After you get that done, start loading all the spare parts boxes into the truck,” he said. “With all the Britt bikes at the run this weekend, we should be able to unload some of this junk and bank some extra coin.”

  Who knew there was so much money in old parts? He thought, shit, we used to throw that stuff away ‘cause it took up too much room.

  “And don’t forget about our deal.” He said.

  The boy responded immediately. “Chill, I remember. I take the lift-gate truck and bring back five bikes,” the underling paused for a second, then continued. “And then we’re even. Right?”

  Hoya looked at the covered form of a motorcycle in the corner. Though hidden from sight, he knew a gleaming machine rested underneath, leaning against the wall. He did a good job…I should keep it for myself. No, it’s not what I want anyway.”

  “Yeah, you’re paid in full. The bike is all yours,” he said reluctantly. “Good job.”

  He called back over his shoulder. “How’s it feel to own your first set of wheels?”

  The seventeen year-old answered from across the room. “It feels pretty damned sweet! I’ve wanted one since I was ten,” he said, bursting with excitement, thinking of the 1975 Sportster under the cover. “Thanks for letting me work it off.”

  A small hissing sound carried on the air as the boy waved the spray can back and forth, the black paint landing on the frame’s metal tubes with precision.

  “You earned it,” Hoya said. “You’re the one who built it. I just rounded up the parts.”

  He sniffed as the odor of fresh paint began to fill the area. Good, he’s painting that frame already.

  Feeling good about closing the west coast deal, he decided to throw the kid a bone. “Get all that other shit done and you can cut out early and go for a ride,” he continued, strong voice a warning. “Just don’t be late tomorrow night.”

  “I won’t.” the boy reassured him.

  He felt no remorse about using Carlos to commit the blatant thefts he had planned. I gave him a huge break when I hired him. He conjectured. Who else would hire an illegal, a minor, and pay him ten dollars an hour for grunt work?

  Hoya himself graduated from shoplifting to stealing cars by the age of twelve and nobody had given him a break. He remembered well the ‘fence’ were he sold the hot autos. The grossly obese black man squeezed every cent he could out of each deal, giving Hoya a tiny fraction of what the cars were really worth, then disowning him completely when Hoya got arrested.

  That corrupting experience set the tone for the rest of his life, galvanizing his resentment at the world of the “haves”, while he belonged to the world of the “have not’s”.

  He took the hard, sometimes violent, lessons learned during his two years in jail and became a “young entrepreneur” of sorts. His cunning and skill reminiscent of Dickens’ Artful Dodger, he made his knowledge of machines pay off in spades. Now, at age twenty-five, he controlled two businesses, one legitimate, the other illegal and deeply hidden behind a mask of artificial propriety.

  He looked around at the mounds of parts in his warehouse and thought of the two other storage units he rented, also full of bikes and parts.

  While “chop-shops” are typically associated with four-wheeled vehicles, the ever-industrious Jesus Hoya had realized a niche market existed in supplying low cost, no questions asked parts for specializ
ed bikes. His network of underage thieves provided the stock and the internet provided the advertising, making Hoya very good money for very little real effort. He finished posting the pictures of three legitimate motorcycles for sale online and shut off the computer.

  Now that Carlos was gone for the day, he took a small bag of white powder and poured some on the glass desktop. He rolled up a ten-dollar bill and sniffed the white crystals up his nose, the drug entering his body with an expected burn. He smiled at the thought of all the money he was going to make the next day, meeting all those people at the fun run. And relieving some of them of their wheels.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Friday night traffic on Gurley St. crawled slowly forward, the flow of cars now thick and steady. The sidewalks were filled with people strolling up and back as resident and tourist alike enjoyed the dusk of a perfect summer day now slipping into evening.

  Hailey slowly drove past the bikes parked along the curb, the Hog calling to its mechanical brethren in a distinct, rumbling voice. She made her way back toward her apartment, a feeling of contentment rolling through her in small, gentle waves as she moved from light to light. The afternoon had been great, the ride fun and exciting, and she admitted the thrill of Doug’s company only made it better. She thought of his confidence in her and again saw his ready smile. Riding east, the lithe brunette could still feel the delicious tingles of pleasure his frequent glances sent dancing through her limbs as they rode. She still reveled in the taste of his kiss. When it came time to bring the event to an end, she found she hadn’t wanted to say good-bye, although the exertion had taken a heavy toll on her already battle-fatigued body.

  She shook her wrist, arm throbbing in pain. God, it still hurts like hell. She felt her abused ribs still burning, the nagging ache reminding her of the ominous clouds hanging over her head. The sting of her injuries brought the reality of her situation slithering back, intruding on her pleasant memories of the day. At some point the cops will find me. I know they’ll never stop looking.