Violence

by Timothy McDougall

  Crotty brought a walkie-talkie up to his mouth, and clicked the handset. “Max, anything?”

  Max was the droopy-eyed young detective from Crotty’s district who was given leave, along with another detective from a local precinct and stationhouse named Doyle, to help keep Anderson under surveillance. They were also the same detectives who interviewed Lyndsey.

  Crotty was able to pull the two extra detectives exclusively for a limited time because, firstly, Derek had a warrant out already for his arrest. Derek had automatically violated the terms of his probation for failing to meet with his PO and do a drug test as part of the ongoing requirements tied to the terms of his release. The placement resource unit at the IDOC had found him a halfway house to reside in temporarily but he only showed up there to shower and get some shuteye after he arrived on the bus from Stateville. As for the drug test, it would have been a “dirty drop” because Derek did do some meth as soon as he got to the City. Fair to say, it was obvious Derek didn’t much give a shit.

  Secondly, there was also enough evidence of non-victim hair samples gathered at the Jack Trax death investigation to allow Crotty to argue with department brass that it would likely be Derek Lysander’s DNA that would provide a match by the time lab tests were returned. Crotty was essentially relying on Locard’s Exchange Principle (Locard was a director of the first known crime lab in France in the early 1900’s) which avers that whenever two “things” come in contact there is invariably an “exchange” of some sort or at the very least “something” is left behind.

  Derek tried to be careful killing Trax when he went to that alley with him to “talk more” and have a smoke. Derek had told Trax to face away, that he didn’t trust him and was going to pat down Trax for weapons, but it was a ruse and Derek, execution-style, quickly put a bullet in the back of Trax’s head. (Derek had employed the Browning pistol to dispose of Trax. It was the same gun he used to grab Jeannie, a weapon he bought on the street right after his release from funds acquired after beating up and robbing a string of hard-core heroin addicts who were “on the nod” under one of the City’s highways.)

  However, Trax didn’t fall conveniently between the two dumpsters so Derek had to physically move his body between the containers where Derek did leave some clothing fibers and several strands of his own hair. This “evidence” would all show up in time but would not help with the “exigent circumstances” of Jeannie’s probable abduction by Derek and the fact that Anderson, the person closest to her, was stonewalling them and wasn’t likely to report her kidnapping for a myriad of reasons: not the least of which he was almost assuredly a murderer himself who would want to stay away from the police while still possibly desiring to rescue his girlfriend. But that is why right now these other two detectives, Max and Doyle, were sitting in this unmarked white van staking out Anderson’s motel room.

  Doyle presently looked through a night-vision lens that was locked on the possible escape route of Anderson’s street side bathroom window where the light was on behind the frosted privacy glass.

  Max, wearing headphones, was bent over the screen of an IMSI Catcher, a virtual micro-network and base station that can covertly intercept cell phone users calls within a very small range. A judge issued the appropriate warrant for Crotty and company to use the IMSI Catcher which allowed the detectives the ability to completely bypass Anderson’s cell phone encryption capability, accomplishing everything from “content analysis,” to “data analysis,” to “presence verification,” among other things.

  It would have been nice if they could have activated a “roving bug” in Anderson’s room, a technology which would have allowed them to use Anderson’s own cell phone as an eavesdropping device and listen to everything that went on around him. Or even a wiretap. But wiretaps cost, on average, over $50,000 and both of these levels of surveillance are usually reserved for mafia stings, drug traffickers or terrorists, not against single murder suspects. And they are also almost always run by the FBI and CIA on a federal level.

  Still, Crotty wasn’t complaining. All in all, it was a nice grab getting this equipment and manpower this fast from the department.

  “He’s just making a lot of calls to that other number that’s in his name.” Max dully reported into his walkie-talkie to Crotty. “The same number he called when he left the jail and the same number that other girl at the record store gave us. It’s his girlfriend’s phone. It’s her voice on the outgoing message.”

  “That’s it? You sure?” Crotty asked.

  “That’s it.” Max confirmed. “I’ll let you know if he connects with anyone or gets any calls.”

  “Thanks.” Crotty sighed and brought the walkie-talkie down.

  It was a half-hour later when Crotty received the very same report from Max regarding Anderson’s cell phone activity. The rain still pounded down.

  During the interval, a curvaceous woman in a micro-mesh see-through long-sleeve mini-dress had clacked out of a lower level room on spike high-heel pumps. She opened a flimsy umbrella and warily circled wide of the idling Crown Victoria as she passed Crotty and Peterson before disappearing into the night. There were other comings and goings during the time that had passed from Max’s first report, not as visually engaging, probably illicit, but similarly uneventful with regards to the task at hand.

  Crotty reached for a knob on the dashboard and played with the temperature setting to try to get rid of the condensation that was forming on the inside of the windshield. The constant temperature change outside coupled with the heat from their breath and the filthy residue left on the interior glass from having eaten too many steaming pizzas out of their laps was leaving a troublesome fog.

  “Shit!” Crotty fumed as he cracked the windows to get some ventilation and clear the filmy haze. “What a pain in the ass.”

  A small Geo Metro sedan with an illuminated “Taste-T Burger” sign attached to the roof drove up and parked in front of the staircase leading to the second floor of motel rooms. The youthful-looking driver put on his hazard flashing warning lights, exited the car with a bag of food and darted up the staircase towards Anderson’s room.

  Crotty and Peterson watched the delivery boy’s progress through the rolled down crack in the Crown Victoria’s driver window with keen interest. The delivery boy was slight and short. So it wasn’t Derek. That was easy to discern.

  Anderson was pacing, dialing Jeannie’s number again on his cell phone, when the knock came to his motel room door. He had the TV on a news channel, but the sound was muted. He wanted it to look like he was “awake” in his room. He grabbed the Sig Sauer pistol from off the bed where it sat next to a notepad upon which he had scribbled the words “Trax dead” and “ransom????” during the idle time he had to wait for information, anything on Jeannie’s whereabouts.

  Who was this? Anderson tried to think fast. Only a handful of people knew where he lived. Even the news crews couldn’t figure out where he was because he still listed his old business address as his home address and Roman or Joyce would never tell anyone where he actually resided. Jeannie knew where he lived, and Anderson was hoping she would tell Derek, but surely Derek would see the cops watching his motel room. Anderson clearly saw them follow his car back to the Heart O’Mine after he left Ward at the auto pound and it was even easy to spot the white surveillance van that pulled up and parked a short time later opposite his street side motel room window.

  Anderson carefully cat-stepped to the door and peered through the peephole at the diminutive kid standing outside his room.

  “Who is it?” Anderson asked through the door.

  “Delivery. Taste-T Burger.” The kid responded, bringing the bag of food up within viewing height at his shoulder.

  Anderson hid the gun on a closet shelf and carefully opened the door. He kept the delivery boy’s body between himself and the parking lot, shifting slightly foot to foot to create a moving target just in case Derek was actually out there waiting to take a potshot at him.

 
“Cheeseburger and fries.” The delivery boy brightly chirped as he held out the bag.

  “I didn’t order anything.” Anderson responded.

  “Room 2-zero-5.” The delivery boy quizzically looked from the “205” numerals on Anderson’s door and read the room number off the food order receipt again just to make sure.

  Anderson quickly figured out this food delivery must have something to do with Jeannie. He dug into his pocket and brought out a ten dollar bill which he handed to the kid as he took the bag from him.

  “It’s already paid for.” The delivery boy informed him.

  “That’s for you.” Anderson replied tersely, pressing the money into his hand because he knew they were being watched and he wanted it to look to Crotty and Peterson, and whoever else was watching, like he was simply paying the bill.

  “Thanks!” The delivery boy nodded as he tucked the money away and retreated back down the stairs towards his Geo, unaware he was being watched by the two detectives.

  “We should get something to eat, too.” Peterson suggested, watching the delivery boy return to his car. “That guy they gave us…” Peterson continued on, referring to Doyle in the van, disregarding Crotty’s generally apprehensive nature. “…he’s from around here. He’s gotta know some places where we can order something. I don’t want a burger, though. Maybe a shrimp basket, that sounds good.”

  Crotty put down his window for a better view, but he couldn’t make out much of anything as the rain hit him in the face. He brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “Max, did Anderson use his cell phone tonight to dial a place called ‘Taste-T Burger’?”

  “’Taste-T Burger’? No.” Max’s voice crackled in reply over the walkie-talkie’s built-in handset speaker.

  “Do me a favor.” Crotty asked worriedly into the handset as he watched the Geo Metro do a U turn and exit the motel parking lot. “I hate to do this to the other guy, but let him out and have him keep watch on Anderson’s room from your side. I need you to chase down a car that’s just leaving the lot. It’s a Taste-T Burger delivery kid. Pull him over and ask him how he got that food order tonight for Anderson’s room and what was in it.”

  “Will do.” Max tersely replied as he yanked off his headset and jumped into the van’s driver’s seat.

  Anderson snapped the lock shut fast on his motel room door and opened the bag. He found a note under the food and hurriedly brought it out, read it:

  “Clark and Addison. Midnight.

  Wait on stadium side of street. Alone.

  No phones. No weapons. No tricks.

  AND NO COPS OR SHE DIES!!!”

  “What’re ya’ thinkin’?” Peterson asked, realizing Crotty was concerned more than usual about something.

  Crotty just shrugged as he stared pensively out the car window, watching the tail lights of the Geo Metro turn into traffic and disappear from sight.

  Doyle sure wasn’t happy to be getting set out on the sidewalk in the rain and having to keep an unaided eyeball on Anderson’s bathroom window (lest Anderson started crawling out of it) while Max took off after the Geo Metro, eventually “lighting him up,” pulling the delivery boy over about a block and a half away.

  Peterson stared cynically at another car that just parked next to the motel office where the curvaceous woman in the mesh see-through dress was sitting in the passenger seat. The driver of the car, a man, ran inside the office to pay for a room.

  Peterson sneered as the man quickly settled with the clerk on some pre-arranged fee and jumped back in his car whereupon the man and the woman made the short trip to a parking space and then scooted through the rain into a ground level room. A different ground level room than the one which the curvaceous woman emerged from not that much earlier in the evening.

  Crotty stepped out of the Crown Victoria.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Peterson called after him.

  “Just stay here.” Crotty instructed Peterson as he headed for the motel office.

  At this same moment, the lights went out in the room next to Anderson’s and a man in a baseball cap, with a moustache and long black hair, holding a crabby three-year-old girl, exited the adjacent room with a 20-something woman.

  The motel clerk, a boney man who otherwise had no distinctive features, sat behind the counter reading a porno magazine when Crotty entered and flashed his badge.

  “Hey, I don’t know-” The clerk shit a brick as he instantly stood up, putting his hands out defensively and making some excuse for whatever it was he thought Crotty was there for.

  “Relax.” Crotty shut him up fast. “Noel Anderson in 2-0-5, did he use his room phone tonight to order from a takeout place called ‘Taste-T Burger’?”

  The motel clerk nervously closed the porno mag and flicked it aside as he went to the front desk computer and started typing.

  Peterson, meanwhile, dully continued to watch as the young family descended the staircase in the steady downpour and dashed through the puddles to their aging four-door Chevy Cobalt where the man with the moustache handed off the baby girl to his wife who strapped the little girl in her rear car seat. The man quickly started the car, waiting for his wife to get in the front seat next to him before he then backed the car out of its space and headed out of the lot.

  “2-oh-5? He never uses the room phone.” The motel clerk muttered as he checked Anderson’s folio readout as fast as he could for Crotty on an antiquated computer screen that posts and calculates the cost of a “guest’s” calls. He finally brought up the information. “No. No calls at all. In or out.”

  Crotty nodded to the clerk, lost in thought as he left the motel office. He stared suspiciously at the hurriedly departing Chevy and its occupants. It was somewhat incongruous to see such a young family in these seedy surroundings but they looked Hispanic and maybe they were illegals and this was simply a stopover on their way to somewhere else or just temporary digs for them. But where were they going at this hour? In a torrential downpour?

  Crotty returned to the Crown Victoria, opened his car door and leaned in: “Who was that?” He asked Peterson, gesturing to the exiting Chevy.

  “Some guy and a woman with a little kid.” Peterson answered.

  “Where’d they come from?” Crotty quizzed him with mounting concern.

  “Second floor.”

  “Where ‘second floor’?”

  “They were in the room next to Anderson’s.” Peterson answered, suddenly realizing he might have really screwed up.

  Crotty slammed his door shut and scooted rapidly back to the motel office.

  Peterson got out and quickly followed him.

  Crotty stepped into the motel office again as Peterson moved up behind him and hung back in the entrance doorway.

  “The people in the room next to Anderson…” Crotty urgently pressed the clerk who was still standing at attention, scared stiff, behind the counter. “…they just left here, a young family. When did they check in?”

  The clerk had to think for a second (which was an eternity to Crotty).

  “Come on! It was a man, a woman and a kid!” Crotty prompted him, yelling.

  “Oh, they checked-in a couple of hours ago.” The clerk answered.

  “Tonight?” Crotty asked.

  “Yeah, tonight.” The clerk replied.

  “Gene, you there?” Crotty’s walkie-talkie crackled with a call from Max.

  “I’m here, go ahead.” Crotty answered as he left the office and stood out of the rain under the shelter of the interior driveway eave with Peterson.

  “I talked to the delivery kid…” Max reported. “…he didn’t take the order. He doesn’t know how it came in, whether it was over the phone or a walk-in. He said he thinks it was a hamburger and fries but he never looked in the bag. You want me to head over there and talk to whoever did take the order?”

  “Hold off on that. Thanks.” Crotty clicked off, shaking his head, flicking a look at Anderson’s room.

  Peterson just stared at him.

/>   “I got a bad feeling.” Crotty muttered as he started heading across the lot with a steadily increasing pace, Peterson falling right in behind him.

  Crotty led the way to the top of the staircase to Anderson’s room where Peterson took up a flanking position aside the door as Crotty stood in front of it and banged hard on the door with his fist. Crotty would have liked to kick the door in but he had to employ the “knock and talk” investigation technique because they didn’t have probable cause or a specific search warrant for Anderson’s premises. Police can come on to private property in a criminal inquiry and as long as they restrict their movements to areas that visitors would normally be expected to go, such as driveways or front stoops, any observations made from these points are not protected by the 4th Amendment’s “reasonable expectation of privacy.” It was Derek they had to be after right now (acting as a fugitive apprehension unit), with Anderson technically being treated as simply their link to him. Crotty sure didn’t want to screw up at this stage of the game and be tainted by the “fruit of the poisonous tree” which could lead to the suppression of “all evidence” collected from an investigation if it was found they performed an unconstitutional search.

  “Noel Anderson!” Crotty shouted. “This is the police! We’d like to have a word with you if we may!”

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Anderson?” Crotty called again.

  Still nothing. Then the door opened slowly, a crack at first.

  Crotty and Peterson drew their guns out protectively.

  The man inside the room cowered back from the door as he let it swing open fully. He stood there frightened in his Peruvian soccer t-shirt.

  “Don’t shoot!” The man pleaded in a thick Spanish accent. It was Victor Sanchez, the ex-employee of Anderson’s who Anderson hired Ward to help with an immigration problem which Sanchez had several years ago.

  Crotty and Peterson peered into the room past Victor where they saw the connecting door to the adjoining unit was sitting wide open.