"I think we can get it out of him," I said to Roberts as Gray and Villacorta left with the smoking gun.
"Let's go talk to McSpadden," said Roberts.
I followed him into the interrogation room and we sat down opposite the accused. Roberts put the closed folder down in front of him. McSpadden looked at it. He was still handcuffed at the back. He smelled as if he'd been bathing in a whisky barrel. His nose was even redder under the florescent lamps of the room, and in this harsh light his face was the color of sidewalks and just as pockmarked.
"You know why you're here?" asked Roberts, looking up at McSpadden.
McSpadden nodded but Roberts reminded him anyway.
"You're under arrest for murder. The murder of Hartley."
Roberts opened up the folder and took out a crime scenes' photo of the deceased. It was a headshot. The gunshot wound in the middle of his forehead looking surreal. If I hadn't known any better I might have suspected it of being faked. McSpadden looked at it nonchalantly. Then he looked back at Roberts.
"Did you do it?" asked Roberts.
McSpadden yawned and then shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't smug. He seemed like a tired old man all used up.
"Well, McSpadden," said Roberts. "We've got enough evidence here to convict you. I'm pretty sure of that."
Roberts shuffled some papers in the folder, taking his time to look at them. Then he turned his attention back on McSpadden.
"We've got the gun, which is headed to ballistics now. I'm pretty sure it's going to be a match with the slug found in Hartley's head. That gun is registered to you. Was your deceased son's but you got ownership of it when he died."
I was watching McSpadden as Roberts spoke. As he mentioned his son, life flickered at the back of McSpadden's eyes like a stoked fire. It was hot and angry.
"I see here, you've been swabbed for gunshot residue, and guess what. You're a winner there too. Not that we needed it, but it's nice of you to help us out with that. I'm pretty sure we're going to find your fingerprints on the gun too. All of what I've shared with you so far is enough to send you to jail for life. But wait, there's more."
Roberts took out a handful of papers from the folder and waved them about as if they were money and he was trying to catch the attention of a stripper at some strip joint.
"These are copies of your correspondence to the Army and Veterans' Affairs. You're practically threatening Major Hartley's - retired - life. Then we have video of you leaving the casino just after Hartley is escorted out. And here's you," said Roberts, putting his finger on an image of McSpadden entering the hotel, "entering the hotel shortly after Hartley."
Roberts put the papers back into the folder and closed it.
"Slam dunk. What I want to know is why?"
Roberts stared at McSpadden and the two of them locked horns for a while.
"You're the detective," said McSpadden at last, "you figure it out."
I figured now was my time. I had the sense McSpadden wanted to let go of the burden. Hell, maybe he even wanted to brag. I figured he just wanted a sympathetic ear. I could offer him that.
"I know what it's like," I said to him.
He looked at me skeptically.
"I lost a son recently in Afghanistan," I said, and I tried to choke on the words. I paused for effect, and I swallowed hard.
"Is that so?" he asked, without care or compassion.
I looked at him hard through lowered lids and slight frown.
"You mocking me?" I said, gritting my teeth. "You better not be mocking me about my son's service and sacrifice."
I started to get out of the chair like I meant it. McSpadden shook his head and leaned back a bit.
"No, sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I thought you were shitting me," he said.
I sat back down, and lowered my defenses.
"What kind of a man do you think I am? I know the pain. I wouldn't play something like that."
We looked at each other for a while and I could feel him searching inside my soul. It's a big, dark empty place sometimes and I can fill it with what I like. I gave him what he needed. He nodded at me.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Not as sorry as I was. Unlike you, I had no one to blame it on. You see, my son was leading the fire team when they got ambushed and killed. Just a routine tour through the city when they were slaughtered like dogs."
I coughed and pretended to choke up on my words. I felt my eyes get a little wet. Perhaps I should've been an actor. I turned away to compose myself for a moment.
"Anyway," I said, when I continued, "it was all on him. My boy. He made a bad decision, he relaxed his guard and now I've got no son. And three other families have no sons, and one of them likes to let me know about it every month."
I looked down. My head hung heavy and weary with the guilt and shame of it all. Then I looked up at him again with a special, kind and soft look. Like we'd just been through a war together.
"Everyday I wish I had someone else to blame," I said. "I'd probably have done the same as you. I'd probably have killed the bastard if he'd put my son in that position."
We looked at each other for what seemed like minutes. Like we were the only two men in that room, tied together by a common thread of pain and loss.
"It was either gonna be me or him. And I didn't see how justice would be served if it was me."
McSpadden stopped to observe me. He was judging me to see how I was judging him. One of the benefits of being a humble PI is that I'm not a judge or jury, at least not when I'm interrogating the suspect. So I nodded at him slowly, knowingly, understandingly, and I held his gaze softly as if I'd captured a butterfly.
"Nobody had any remorse. Yeah, they said they were sorry but they didn't mean it. My son was just a number to them. And Hartley, that miserable son of a bitch. You know what he said to me when I put the gun to his face?"
I shook my head slowly and sympathetically.
"No," I said. "What did he say to you?"
"He said war was hard business. He said he'd lost dozens of men, many who were better than my son. Can you believe that?"
I shook my head and pinched my lips together. That was pretty cold.
"So I shot him. I shot him right in the fucking face that arrogant bastard. And I'm glad for it."
He looked at me then. His mouth was quivering and his eyes were welling up with tears. It hadn't gotten rid of his pain. And I knew it wouldn't have.
"It didn't kill the pain though," I said, "did it?"
He shook his head.
"No. Losing my boy cost me everything. My wife left me after I turned to drink. I had nothing but this big hot stone in my belly and I just wanted to get rid of it. I thought if I confronted Hartley that it would help. I thought he'd be genuinely sorry and remorseful and I could get on with my life. Or at least find my way back home. But he didn't..."
McSpadden stopped then for a moment and sobbed. I could feel the pain come up out of him, hot like lava and filling the room. I was moved. Genuinely.
"But he didn't," said McSpadden, looking down as tears dropped like shards of glass into his lap. "He said there were many better men than my son. He lied to me and he ridiculed my son's service. He had to pay."
I looked over at Roberts and he shook his head at me with disbelief. He stood up. I stood up next to him.
"Someone will come for you in a minute," he said.
McSpadden looked up at us as we turned to leave. I stopped by the door, and looked back at him.
"I'm sorry for your loss, really," I said, and I was. He nodded at me and I left, closing the door behind.
"I'd forgotten how good you were at lying to suspects," said Roberts, grinning at me like a proud papa.
"War," I said, "what is it good for?"
"Keeping us employed I suppose."
"I'd rather sleep under the stars."
Washed Up
I was watching the beached whales trying to tan themselves on the Santa Monica Beach. I was sitt
ing at the Chess Park smoking a cigarette and enjoying the midmorning sunshine on my face. Mornings and evenings were my favorite times of the day. The weather was cooler and the people sparser. It was late September and the weather could still get hot.
I watched a lazy Chinese man on a bicycle take his dog for a run. It was a small poodle, and I couldn't figure out if he was a genius or an idiot. The dog was working hard. He was barely pedaling. You get all sorts down here. For example, at a chess table a little ways away from me was a homeless man who looked like an older Jesus. He had gray hair and a scruffy beard. He was wearing tattered cargo pants, sandals and a black wife beater. He was playing chess by himself, and from what I could tell he was commenting on the results. Only he didn't play from one seat. No, he kept getting up and changing seats each time he wanted to play as the other player. Perhaps he was trying to give it more authenticity.
I didn't particularly care. I just liked the way the pier took my mind off things. I watched the roller coaster take a couple of tours along the pier and I couldn't figure out the attraction in that. If I wanted to move around I'd take a car and go someplace.
Staring at the pier and all the human ants crawling all over it like it was a sliver of cake left at the beach, I noticed a group gathering down at the tideline just under the pier. I watched it after a while. Every so often, something interesting would wash up and get caught up on the legs of the pier. I'd seen a dead shark once washed up under there. Crabs too, you could find quite a few crabs if you were careful.
But this looked different, I started to notice a few cops come on down and tape up the area. The yellow tape was what caught my eye and I became more interested in what was going on. I stubbed out my cigarette and got up, wishing old Jesus well with his chess match.
I strolled down to see what was what. The crowd was growing bigger now and more unis were blocking the view. I walked up to one and he put his hand out to stop me.
"What's going on?" I asked.
He looked at me as if I'd asked to date his sister. I walked along the crowd towards the water. I made it to the edge and took off my shoes and socks and rolled up my socks. I walked into the water up to my knees and across towards the pier. I could see what looked like a body lying slightly under the pier, but a couple of plain clothes were blocking the view.
"Sir! Sir!" came the shout of a wet behind the ears the cop. "I'm going to have to get you to move that way."
He was gesticulating with his hands to get me to head back from where I'd come. I smiled at him and ignored him. He was getting more worked up.
"Sir!" he yelled. "I'm serious. You've got to get back now. Goddamn!"
I kept going and he matched my pace but he stayed on they dry sand. One of the plain clothes looked up at me and grinned. Then he nudged one of the others who was kneeling in front of him. This cop got up. He shook his head at me and smiled.
"It's alright," he said to the young uni. "He's with us. For Chrissakes, Anthony, can I get any work done by myself?"
It was Captain John Roberts. An old friend whom I'd taught everything I knew about crime fighting.
"You that desperate for work you're gonna swim ashore here to help me?"
"I just want to make sure you get a conviction," I said. "You know how helpless you are without me."
He shook his head.
"This is Detective Ashley Schaal and Detective Ray Campos."
Schaal was my height and about my build. She was an old school policewoman, butch looking in her mid-forties with short gray hair that she didn't bother coloring. I hadn't met her before. Campos was a slim, good looking Hispanic man who could have made more money as a model. He was also about my height, in his mid-thirties with wet, curly black hair. He was in dark blue pants and blue shirt with pink stripes. He wore it well. We didn't shake hands but they both nodded at me.
"You gonna put on your socks and shoes?" asked Roberts.
"Not until my feet are dry. What have you got here?"
Roberts turned to look down at the body. I came up next to him and had a look.
"Young guy," said Roberts, "looks like he was stabbed multiple times. He's soaking wet so he probably wasn't killed here. The tide's been going out all morning. Probably got washed up last night."
I looked down at the young boy. He looked like a teenager, but he might have been twenty, even twenty-one. He was a white man of about average height, but on the husky side of the scale. He wore a blue UCLA t-shirt and pale yellow board shorts. He had no shoes. I counted three stab marks to his lower abdomen. They had been washed clean. There was no blood anywhere near him.
"No blood, no shoes, and he's looking pretty bloated. I reckon he's been washed up like you said," I acknowledged.
Schaal looked at me like I was an idiot repeating everything Roberts had just said.
"Why is he here?" she asked Roberts.
I liked her already. Roberts looked over at her and smiled.
"He'll be consulting with us. Don't let his aw shucks attitude fool you, he was the best homicide detective we've had in years."
She looked me up and down.
"If you say so," she added, speaking to Roberts.
"She's always like that," said Campos.
"I don't suppose we've got any ID, a name or anything?" I asked.
Roberts shook his head.
"John Doe for now, hopefully we'll get lucky with the prints."
I took out my phone and snapped a picture of his marble white, dead face. I put my phone back in my pocket.
"I'll be in touch this afternoon," I said to Roberts.
I walked away from them and ducked under the yellow tape. I heard Roberts tell them I was like that sometimes.
"What happened?" asked a tall college aged kid with dirty blonde hair.
"Somebody harpooned a whale," I said to him with a straight face. He frowned at me trying to figure it out. I walked off towards the chess park again to dry my feet and put on my shoes.
Washed Up: Chapter Two
UCLA is like a small, quaint town in the middle of LA. A place where kids transform from awkward teenagers into the captains and titans of industry. At least that's what I'm told. It's east of the 405 and sprawls on over 400 acres of prime LA real estate that's likely worth more than some small countries.
Though I reckon that if we the fault split, UCLA might end up like the fable city of Atlantis. As would I, but it's not something that keeps me up at night. What keeps me up at night is Pirate's claws on my jugular.
I parked in the parking lot by Murphy Hall which is where the Registrar's Office is located. It's on the far east side just off Hilgard Avenue. The parking lot had half a dozen spots left in it, and my 2000 LeSabre didn't seem too out of place.
I sat in the parking lot for a minute wondering if I'd thought this out properly. I figured that UCLA had to accept several thousands of students each year. How the hell were they going to recognize a student from just a photograph? I didn't have any idea now that I thought about it. But I was here and I might as well roll the dice. You don't always come up snake eyes. Hell even some pensioner's gotta win the slots once in a while, and I felt lucky.
I got out of my car and put on my fedora. I walked over the Registrar's Office like I knew where I was going. There were a few kids in the line in front of me. Probably trying to change courses. I waited a few minutes when I was called up front.
The woman behind the desk had a name tag that said "Darlene". It suited her well. She was an older woman with dyed brown hair and a thick schmeer of makeup. Even from across the desk, her rose-scented perfume would knock out a honey badger. I smiled at her and put on my serious cop face.
"I'm with the LAPD," I said, hoping she wouldn't ask for my badge, "and I need to speak with someone familiar with undergraduate admissions."
She looked me up and down and nodded at me. Then she got up and walked behind her to a field of open desks and behind them a few offices. She disappeared from my view for a few moments. When she ca
me back she was followed by a middle-aged woman in a gray business suit over a pin-striped blouse. She had jet black hair that was cropped short around her face and she was trim and pretty. Darlene pointed to the end of the counter. I walked over to meet them. The woman in the business suit put out her hand and introduced herself to me. He skin was soft and her fingers slender.
"Linda Pacheco," she said, "I'm one of the undergraduate assistant registrars."
"Anthony Carrick," I said.
She opened up a swing door in the desk and invited me inside. I followed her away from the main desk to a small office in the back. After she sat down I took a seat across from her and her desk. I scooted up closer.
"So you're with the LAPD," she said.
I nodded.
"I'm helping them with a homicide," I said, smiling at her.
"So you're not actually a cop."
"No."
"Then I'm not sure how I can help you."
She was frowning icicles above her eyebrows and I wanted to thaw them off.
"Listen," I said, "just hear me out for a few minutes. What I'm asking for is a long shot. I'm not even sure the young man murdered goes to UCLA. Further, I don't even know his name. This is what we're trying to find out. All I've got is a picture."
She stared at me blankly as if I'd just spoken Xhosa.
"If this young man hasn't come into contact with law enforcement we won't have his prints. If we don't have his prints, it gets harder to find out who he is. And the longer we're taking trying to figure out his name the easier it is for the murderer to go unpunished. If we don't have a good handle on a suspect list in the first 48 hours, we might as well give the real killer a get out of jail free card."
I made that up, but I figured it couldn't hurt my case. After some time she nodded.
"You don't mind if I call LAPD," she said, "to verify your story."
She picked up the phone. I thought that was cute. She started dialing. I wasn't finding her all that cute anymore. I nodded my head anyway. I understood she had to be cautious.
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