by Sean Lynch
“So I’ve heard,” Matt said. “You got your private investigator’s license, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I hung a shingle,” I conceded.
A smiling waitress came over and took our order from Matt in Vietnamese. Matt ordered us each a large bowl of Pho Tau Bay, cooked the way it’s not served to regular customers. Matt got a coke. I stuck with tea.
“I heard you might be working with Greg Vole,” he said when the waitress left. There weren’t too many cops in the Bay Area who didn’t know Greg, or at least his law firm.
“I help Greg out here and there. Nothing steady.”
“I also heard some other things,” Matt said, lowering his voice.
“Such as?”
“You do more than investigate. That you do muscle work, too.”
“A nice girl like me?” I mocked. “Who told you that?”
“Word gets around,” Matt chuckled. “Hey, I’m not judging. If I needed somebody’s head slammed into a car door you’d be the first guy I’d call.”
“Nice to know you still care,” I said, sipping tea.
Matt lifted his shoulders and showed me his palms. “No offense, Chance. I’m envious. Really I am. Look at us; we’re not even forty. But you look ten years younger and ready to go ten rounds with Randy Couture. Me; I look ten years older. Every day my hair gets thinner and my waist gets thicker.” He patted his stomach for emphasis. “I work eighty hours a week scraping dead citizens off Oakland’s streets. The good news is that I’m making a fortune in overtime. The bad news is that I have no time to work out, my diet is shit, and I hardly ever sleep or see the family. Last month my doctor put me on blood pressure medication, and last week my wife threatened me with divorce.” He shook his head and sipped some cola. “You were smart to get out, Chance. I wish I could get out of this stinking line of work.”
“Think about the pension,” I tried to console him. “Remember you can retire at age fifty.”
“That’s twelve years from now,” Matt said. “In twelve years I’ll look like Buddha, if I haven’t died of a heart attack.” We both laughed.
“Get out of homicide,” I suggested. “Get a desk job, or go back into the Training Division. Didn’t you used to teach at the Academy?”
“I’ve tried. I was due to rotate out last year, but we’re so short-handed I was forced to stay.”
“I’m sorry things aren’t going better for you, Matt.”
“Forget it. And don’t listen to me; I’m being a whiny bitch. Didn’t mean to go Oprah on you.”
“No sweat,” I smiled. A different waiter arrived with our steaming bowls of Pho.
“Anyway,” Matt said, dropping basil leaves into his noodles, “I’m glad you’re doing okay. Sounds like getting out of police work was a good move for you.”
“Like I said, I’ve got no complaints.”
“You still in the Army Reserve?”
“Nope,” I told him. “Counting my active duty time, I got my twenty in last year and punched out. I’m officially a civilian.”
“No longer a cop or a soldier,” Matt whistled. “What are you going to do with yourself?”
“Whatever I want,” I admitted. “That’s the point.”
We ate in silence for a while. I don’t know how Matt is able to wolf down his Pho so rapidly; mine was so hot I could barely touch it. His meal was almost devoured by the time I got started.
“That homicide case you called me about,” Matt began, once we finished eating and were sipping tea. “Marisol Hernandez? What’s your interest?” He pulled a notebook from his coat pocket and began to thumb through it.
There was no harm in confiding in Matt. After all, I was the one who called him. “Greg asked me to look into it.”
“What’s so special about this slaying?”
“The victim’s grandmother is Greg’s housekeeper.” He accepted that with a nod. “What can you tell me about it?”
“Not much to tell,” Matt said. “Another teenaged B-girl gunned down on the Track.”
The ‘Track’ is the slang term for the section of Oakland’s International Boulevard, formerly known as East 14th Street, stretching from about 15th to 60th Avenues. It’s the heart of the criminal commercial district, and home to countless pimps, dope-dealers, gunfighters and gangsters. But what the Track is especially known for is the prostitutes, many underage, who walk endlessly up and down International Boulevard at all hours plying their wares. The Track is a 24-hour pussy plaza, and in a city a third the size of San Diego but with three times the homicide rate, the critically understaffed and overwhelmed Oakland cops are too busy responding to shootings, murders and other mayhem to do much about it. The term ‘B-girl,’ in California cop jargon, refers to Penal Code Section 647(b); the section governing prostitution.
“Is the Hernandez case one of yours?” I asked.
“Yeah, but it isn’t at the top of my list. I didn’t even get to the scene until after the coroner arrived. I was stuck over in West Oakland on a triple shooting that ended up not resulting in anybody DOA.”
One of Oakland’s dirty little secrets is the number of shooting victims versus homicide victims. Homicide victims get all the press, but a helluva lot more people get shot than killed. Oakland averages almost sixteen hundred shooting victims annually, but typically between one and two-hundred homicides. Thanks to modern medical technology, and the proximity and skill of emergency medical responders, only about one in sixteen people who are shot in Oakland die. The Oakland Police Department doesn’t even put out a press release for a shooting unless it’s a multiple or a fatal. Why waste valuable airtime on the routine?
“Marisol Hernandez,” Matt read from his notebook. “Hispanic female, aged fifteen. San Leandro resident. Pronounced at the scene. Died of apparent multiple gunshot wounds. Close range; maybe even contact distance. Likely a large caliber handgun. She took hits to the throat, neck, and head. Found by the beat officer responding to a ‘shots fired’ call at the intersection of 42nd Avenue and International.” He flipped a page. “Call came in on nine-one-one at twenty-one seventeen hours. Officer arrived onscene at twenty-one-forty-six, which for OPD on a weekend night is a fairly good response time. No witnesses. At least none which came forward.” He closed and pocketed his notebook.
“Which means no suspect description,” I added. “What caliber?”
“Don’t know yet,” Matt replied. “Probably nine or forty. Coroner’s pretty backed up; I don’t expect a preliminary report for a week or more.”
“No brass in the street?”
“Nothing fresh,” Matt remarked. It wasn’t uncommon to find expended shell casings in the curbs along the Track.
“More than one shot and no fresh brass on the ground could mean a lot of things,” I said. “Shooter could have used a revolver, or picked up the casings.”
“Could be,” Matt said. “Shooter might have used a wheelgun. It’s unlikely the shooter would have had the time to find all the casings, even if it wasn’t too dark to locate them.”
“She could have been shot somewhere else and dumped,” I offered.
“No chance,” Matt said. “Nothing to indicate the victim was dragged or dropped. She was wearing backless heels, for Chrissakes. They were still on her. You know any killers dump a body on a busy street corner and then make sure the victim’s fuck-me pumps are in place? She died where she fell,” Matt reiterated. “No doubt about it.”
“Which leaves only one other possibility.”
“A vehicle,” Matt concurred. “Already thought of that.”
“If the shooter opened up on her from inside a car,” I remarked, “the ejected bullet casings could have remained inside the vehicle. It would explain why all the hits were above the upper chest, too. Maybe she was leaning into the car from outside and negotiating a trick?”
“Or arguing with her pissed-off pimp,” Matt noted. That possibility hadn’t escaped me.
“You get anything off her cell phone?”
&n
bsp; Matt shook his head. “No phone recovered.”
That stood out. You didn’t often find a B-girl without her phone, dead or alive. Certainly not on the Track. A phone was the electronic leash that connected a working girl to her pimp, and pimps on the Track kept a tight rein. Sex trade on the Track, like anywhere else, was all about control.
“Think the phone was taken off her by the shooter?”
“Maybe,” Matt shrugged. “Who knows? If she had a phone, anybody could have lifted it. The scavengers on the Track work pretty fast. They’re like piranhas.”
“Any money on her?”
“Jesus, Chance; take it easy with the interrogation, will you? It’s not like you’re gonna solve the fucking case. It’s only one dead whore. It ain’t the Lindbergh kidnaping.”
“Sorry Matt,” I backed off. “Old habits die hard.”
Matt looked into his tea. “Forget it. I’m wondering why you need all this information if you’re not working the case. Something you’re not telling me?”
“Not a thing, Matt. Like I said, I’m looking into it for Greg. He wants something to tell his housekeeper so he can get his home back in order.”
Matt looked up from his glass. “Greg’s going to be disappointed, Chance. Truth is, his maid’s granddaughter was out peddling her ass on the Track and got her ticket punched. Happens all the time. Maybe she shorted her pimp? Maybe she stole his dope? Maybe she didn’t satisfy a customer? Maybe some whack-job John did it for kicks? Who the fuck knows?”
“There could be any number of reasons,” I agreed.
“We’ll never know,” Matt went on, “unless we get lucky with a NIBIN hit on one of the bullets recovered from her body, which is a long shot. And all that will give us is the gun, not the shooter.”
By NIBIN, Matt was referring to the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network, a nationwide database of high-tech digital images taken of the markings on bullets and cartridge cases from crime scenes. The database is administered by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Ballistic crime scene evidence is submitted by local law enforcement agencies to their local Crime Labs for processing, and the data forwarded to the ATF for entry into the NIBIN database. If the ATF computers get a ‘hit’ connecting the evidence to a weapon in their databank, the law enforcement agency which submitted the evidence would be notified. It was a great program, but badly backed up. It could be weeks before Matt might get any information on the bullets from the Hernandez killing, even if a NIBIN match was made.
“At this point you’ve got a suspended case?”
“Unless the shooter walks into my office with a guilty conscience, a murder weapon, and a confession,” Matt responded. “You ought to know we don’t have the manpower or resources for this kind of killing. I don’t have time for go-nowhere cases. If we have leads, we follow them. If we don’t, we file them. That’s just how it is.”
I knew it, and knew that Matt didn’t like it any better than I did. He was venting. But for some reason I didn’t want to let it go; something made me want to drive on.
Maybe it was boredom? Maybe I’d gotten nostalgic talking a murder case with an old colleague? Maybe I was still clinging to my previous life as a homicide detective? Maybe I wanted something more to report to Greg? Maybe I was being stubborn? Maybe I was looking to do something besides shagging lost assholes, debt shakedowns, or background investigations on Greg’s clients? Or maybe I’m simply a stubborn idiot; that was usually my default motive. Whatever it was, it kicked me in the ass.
“Any chance I could see the report?”
“You know I can’t release information on a pending homicide case. Besides, the initial report isn’t even finished.”
“So you’re telling me no?”
“Didn’t say that,” Matt said.
“Give me what you got,” I pressed him. “You know you can trust me not to divulge anything, and another set of eyes can’t hurt. Who knows; maybe I’ll come up with something? Besides, it’s a suspended case, remember? What have you got to lose? If nothing comes out of it, you still end up with another free lunch. And if somehow I make something happen to advance the investigation, you’ll get some leads to follow; maybe even a clearance. What do you say?”
“You’re asking me to violate departmental policy and risk my job to give a civilian an unfinished and unauthorized homicide report in the hope that leads will emerge which will create a shitload more work for me? Is that what you’re asking?”
“That’s exactly what I’m asking.”
“Now I know why they call you Chance,” Matt grunted. “Yeah, I’ll get you what I got. Why not?”
“Thanks, brother. I won’t forget it.”
“You’d better forget it,” Matt said, pointing his finger at me. “Anybody finds out you got the inside scoop on an open murder case from me, even a dead-end like this one, I’m toast. Hell Chance, since the Feds took over the department we have only nine homicide detectives, but thirty-two internal affairs investigators. Command lives to nail guys like me fucking up. They catch wind of me divulging information it’ll be demotion for sure; maybe even termination.”
“I’ve got your back,” I reassured him. “I look like a guy who breaks?”
“No, you don’t,” Matt said. “You don’t bend, either. Which is why you’re an ex-cop and I’m still getting a paycheck.”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
“I’m sorry, Chance,” Matt apologized. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Forget it. I’m the one who asked you to lunch, remember?”
“I can’t get you a copy of the actual report,” Matt told me. “If I print a copy, it’s tracked on the departmental computer system and I have to explain why I printed it and where the copy went. The department’s hell about information security, especially on homicide cases, ever since the Chauncey Bailey fiasco. But I can get you my working notes. Good enough?”
“I’ll take whatever you can send my way,” I told him, “and be glad to get it.”
“So long, Chance. Say ‘Hi’ to Greg for me.”
I paid the tab and gave Matt my phone number. We shook hands, and Matt promised to call me when he had his case notes together on the shooting death of Marisol Hernandez for me to look over.
When I left Le Cheval it was still early afternoon. The sky was a dirty grey, but it was too cold to rain. Instead of getting on the Nimitz freeway at Broadway on my way back to Castro Valley, I elected for the scenic route through quaint metropolitan Oakland.
My car that year was a ten-year-old, olive-drab, Toyota four-wheel drive with over one-hundred thousand miles on the engine. Reliable, but nothing which stands out. Californians are obsessed with their cars, but I’ve learned there’s peace-of-mind in owning a paid-off chariot which doesn’t trouble you over a dent or two. I picked up 14th Street a block from the restaurant and headed east.
I’d spent my law enforcement career working in a city bordering Oakland, and as a result spent a helluva lot of time there as a detective. Between S.W.A.T. and Investigations, I’d kicked a lot of doors in Oaktown. It felt odd driving the streets in something other than a Ford Crown Victoria.
Once I crossed Lake Merritt I was unofficially in East Oakland and the street name changed accordingly. Now I was on East 14th Street, which had been renamed to International Boulevard in 1996 by the City of Oakland in a futile attempt to distract residents from the fact that it’s one of the most crime-ridden thoroughfares in the United States. International Boulevard is also one of the longest continuous streets in the Bay Area, running south all the way through San Leandro, where it resumes the name East 14th Street. East 14th then continues into Hayward, Union City, Fremont, and all the way to San Jose, like the song says. West of Lake Merritt, 14th Street isn’t unlike any other fraying, downtown road in any large U.S. city. But east of the lake, on International Boulevard, it’s tough to believe you’re not in Mogadishu.
As usual, I had my five-shot .38 Smith & Wesson Airweight. T
he first rule of surviving a gunfight is, Bring a Gun. I’ve had one at hand since basic training, and would sooner leave the house without my trousers. I was also wearing my working pistol, my reliable old Sig Sauer .45, and had two spare magazines in my coat pocket. You’d think with two handguns and thirty rounds of hollow-point ammunition I’d be pretty well armed. In East Oakland, I was underdressed.
I drove past too many boarded-up businesses to count; past churches with names like ‘Love Ministries’ and ‘The Delucah Faith Satan Fighters’; past empty, litter-strewn lots; past armored government check-cashing kiosks; past hair and nail salons with metal bars and graffiti covering their windows; past burrito wagons selling heroin and methamphetamine along with their chimichangas; past a zillion liquor stores and seedy bars guarded by vagrant doormen, and eventually through the Fruitvale District’s Hispanic section, known as Jingletown.
The people I saw walking the streets of International Boulevard were of every age and ethnicity, and shared only one thing in common besides poverty; predatory eyes. Everyone you could see was looking to score. Driving through Oakland on International Boulevard on an overcast January afternoon was like watching one of those apocalyptic zombie movies where the human population of the world has been decimated and all that remains are walking corpses.
I reached 42nd Avenue and pulled into the vacant lot that used to be an auto parts store across from the Burger King. I scanned the terrain from inside my truck.
42nd Avenue and International Boulevard was prime real estate in the Track’s pussy-for-sale bazaar. The vacant lot on the southeast corner gave a clear view in all directions of any approaching threat, such as a cop, which rarely happened, or an interloping pimp. The girls paraded along the sidewalk near the street displaying what they had to offer. The Johns pulled off International Boulevard into the expansive lot to make their deals without leaving their cars. It was a sex-for-sale drive thru, just like the Burger King across the street, except one sold tail instead of whoppers and fries.