Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

Becky asked for questions, and as students queried her about certain areas that needed clarification, Becky went to the whiteboard and started scribbling equations as she talked, and Sam saw the students nodding as they seemed to get Becky’s explanation.

  Sam didn’t understand any of it, of course, but he felt very proud. He couldn’t take credit for any of the mutant genes that formed Becky’s unusual mind, but he felt at least partially responsible for saving her from the streets and putting her on a path which made this moment possible. Perhaps that was why she had wanted him here—to let him see firsthand what the results of his act of kindness three years ago had wrought. Sam felt as if he were watching his own daughter up there, and in a way he was. He was glad he hadn’t embarrassed her by busting heads—she had handled things just fine.

  As the hour drew to a close, it was obvious that Becky had gained the respect of every student in the class. She had patiently answered all of their questions, and had pointed out that they should take advantage of her office hours if they had more questions.

  She looked at her watch, and seeing that time was up, she went to the lectern and addressed the class.

  “This hour is up. I’ve enjoyed it immensely. I hope I’ve helped you a bit. I’ll leave you with this: physicists must be able to describe their theories mathematically, then test the derived equations against observed data. Science has progressed so much in the last decade that observations now available allow us to test established theories in ways that weren’t possible before. The new generation of physicists—that’s you and me—will be called upon to do these tasks. This class is not about learning a bunch of equations, but rather is about techniques and methods that can be applied to observed data. Do not let the past shackle your horizons. Do not let the boundaries set by Einsteinian theories constrict your thinking. Even Einstein would tell you that if he could. Innovate! Question everything! Make your math fit the observed facts, then extrapolate into unexplored areas! Are the equations wrong? The observations suspect? Both? Neither? Real physicists will ask these questions. The rest are doomed to teach history to the next wave of pretenders. Thank you for your attention. Have a nice day!”

  As she turned and walked toward the door, the class stood and started clapping. Sam rose and joined them.

  Chapter 17

  Friday, May 11, 2001

  San Juan Capistrano, CA

  Jose Martinez, a homeless man, discovered the body at first light. It was behind a dumpster in an alley in the “barrio” section west of Camino Capistrano in San Juan Capistrano. The bells at Mission San Juan Capistrano had just pealed six times. The corpse was well-dressed and there was no visible blood, so Martinez thought at first that the man might be a passed-out drunk. When he gingerly touched the man’s neck, he realized he was dead. Martinez looked around furtively to see if he was being watched. Since he saw no one, he decided that he would see what treasures he could glean—wallet, rings, watch, and especially the expensive leather coat on the stiff. He pulled the body out from behind the dumpster so he could better search it; however, this was not to be his lucky day.

  Back in 1961, the City of San Juan Capistrano contracted for police services with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, so even though the black-and-whites had San Juan Capistrano stenciled on their sides, they were in fact operated by deputies of the Sheriff’s Department. It was unfortunate for Jose Martinez that morning that one of the black-and-whites was patrolling the very area in which he was about to commit a felony.

  Deputy Diego Torres was patrolling the neighborhood with his partner Julie Cameron and just happened to pull into the alley as Martinez leaned over the body.

  Julie Cameron, riding shotgun, said, “Look at that, Diego! Hit the siren and the lights! I’ll go check it out. Watch my back.”

  Diego did as he was asked and turned his headlights onto high beam so his partner would have plenty of light in the dark, shadowy alley. When Martinez heard the siren burp, he looked up and saw the flashing light bar and headlights. His first impulse was to run, but he was like a deer caught in the headlights, and the woman cop was only a few feet away. Since he hadn’t had a chance to steal anything yet, he decided the best approach was to bluff it out.

  Julie Cameron yelled in English, then in Spanish, “Lean against the dumpster, please. Keep your hands in sight!”

  Martinez did as he was told. This was a bad beginning for a day that didn’t have much promise in the first place.

  ***

  Homicide Investigators Willie Woodward and John Pabst from the Orange County Sheriff’s Criminal Investigation Division (CID) in Santa Ana arrived an hour later, the Crime Scene Investigations truck right behind them. Deputy Diego Torres had spotted a bullet entry hole in the back of the dead man’s head and had called it in as a homicide. While the crime scene team did their work, Woodward talked to Martinez, and Pabst, the senior investigator on scene, sent some uniforms to see what information they could gather from the neighborhood. He knew it was a waste of time, but he needed to document the effort in his report. This would end up as another unsolved murder after a few days of dull procedural work unless the shooter got caught during another crime and still had the gun.

  John Pabst walked out of the alley and lit a cigarette. Deputy Julie Cameron walked over and joined him.

  She lit up also and asked, “You guys find any clues, Sherlock?”

  “I haven’t asked yet. I don’t expect any. These random crimes are the worst,” he grunted as he blew smoke into the morning air.

  She mused, “I don’t know. I got a good look at the body. He’s definitely not from around here. His leather jacket’s worth $500, easily. Shoes are expensive, too. Wonder what he was doing here?”

  “Drug deal gone bad? Who knows? Did you guys find a car nearby that would match the clothes?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah, here comes Charlie Drake from the ME’s office. Let me see what he’s dug up,” said Pabst.

  Drake was short, fat, and balding, and was sweating even though the morning was still cool. He snapped off his latex gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket.

  “You in charge of this scene, Pabst?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What’d you find?”

  “Male Caucasian, 36-years-old if you can believe his driver’s license. Name’s William Jackson. Bullet to the back of the head. No exit wound. Probably a .22 caliber that rattled around in his skull and pureed the brain. Autopsy will confirm that. No blood on the ground, but then his wrists had been slit. He bled out somewhere else, then was dumped here,” mumbled Drake. “Someone didn’t want to bloody his car.”

  Julie smiled, “That explains why we didn’t find his wheels.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Charlie. Send me a copy of the autopsy report,” shrugged Pabst.

  “Sometime tomorrow afternoon, John. Can we take the body?”

  “Soon as CSI says so. Here comes Brady now. Let’s see if he’s through. He should be. If that guy was dumped, there won’t be much evidence around here,” replied Pabst as he ground out his cigarette with his shoe.

  Nick Brady of the CSI team sidled up and held up four plastic evidence bags.

  “This is it, Pabst. Wallet, watch, business card, and about 8 ounces of heroin. You can take the stiff, Charlie. I figured dusting the dumpster for prints was a waste of time. No distinguishable footprints. The guy was dumped here.”

  “OK, Brady. Check the evidence in and I’ll go over it tomorrow,” grunted Pabst, apparently not very interested.

  Brady smiled and held up a plastic bag with a business card in it.

  “I thought you would find this interesting.”

  Pabst took the bag and read the card. It was a card from Mickey Malone Investigations in Santa Ana. He flipped the bag over and checked the back of the card. In the lower right-hand corner, written in a delicate, feminine script, was “SC 2/14/01.” A telephone number was scrawled across the middle of the card in a different handwriting.

  Brady aske
d, “Isn’t that the place where Sam Crown works?”

  Pabst stroked his chin and said, “I’ll be damned! What’s this vic doing with a Mickey Malone card? I guess we should try and find out.”

  Julie spoke up. “Did you say Sam Crown? I’ve heard all kinds of stories about that guy—if he’s the one that used to be with the Department.”

  “Same guy,” said Brady.

  Brady and Pabst had been with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department for years, and had worked many investigations with Sam Crown in the past. He had been the best cop they had ever worked with, and they had hated to see him go when he got fed up with the politics and resigned. Julie had been with OCSD for only a couple of years, so had never met him.

  Julie rambled on, “Some of the deputies have told me he made Dirty Harry look like a Girl Scout.”

  “Sam wasn’t a rules sorta guy. But he got the tough jobs done.”

  Cameron wandered away to find her partner.

  “What about the Mickey Malone thing?” asked Brady.

  “You can give it to me. Let me sign the chain-of-custody card. No! Better yet, let’s give it to Willie. He’s new on the job here. Came in from San Francisco P.D., so he won’t know about the Mickey thing. I’ll let him go to Mickey Malone’s and let Sam give him the run around. That should be fun. If it turns out to be important, I’ll follow up myself. Who knows? Maybe Willie will really find the mythical Mickey Malone!”

  Laughter.

  But Pabst was now changing his thinking on this murder being a random thing. Since the body had been drained and then dumped here, things would get complicated. And that dope was mystifying. Why didn’t the killer take that? It was worth a lot of money on the street. It wasn’t like the killer was rushed and had to leave it behind. An obvious misdirection, but a dumb one.

  Shit! This is going to be a tough one! he thought as he lit another cigarette.

  ***

  Willie Woodward showed up at the Mickey Malone Investigations office at 2:30 that afternoon.

  Pearl smiled at him and said, “May I help you?”

  He had “cop” written all over him. Pearl used her right knee to push the switch under her desk, which started the recorder hidden in the desk clock. This was standard procedure for her—she didn’t have to take a lot of notes or remember a bunch of details if it became important later.

  Willie Woodward said, “I’d like to talk with Mickey Malone, please.”

  Pearl was wary.

  “On what subject, sir?” she asked.

  Woodward flashed his badge and replied, “Police business. I’m Investigator Woodward, Orange County Sheriff’s Department. I need to ask him a few questions.”

  Pearl didn’t want to lie to a cop, but Sam had taught her to never offer unsolicited information, and to try and get as much as she could before deciding how to answer a question.

  So she decided to be ambiguous. “There are no detectives in at the moment. Maybe I can help you. I’m the office manager, Pearl Cooper. I keep up on all the various cases our detectives are working on.”

  “You’re sure Mickey Malone isn’t here?”

  “I’m positive of that. Would you like to search the place? I won’t even require you to show a warrant,” snickered Pearl.

  Woodward decided, rather than go away empty-handed, he would see if Pearl knew anything about the business card. He took the plastic envelope out of his pocket and showed it to her.

  “Do you recognize this card?” he asked.

  She squinted at it. She reached out to take the envelope and said, “May I?”

  He let her take it. She recognized the card as one of theirs, but she mainly wanted to see if it had any coded script on the back. She flipped it over and saw her handwriting on the back: SC 2/14/01. She routinely marked cards that were left with bars, attorneys, and bail bondsmen so she could identify where they came from and how long they’d been there. She often paid a fee to places that got them new clients.

  “This is one of ours,” she said. She read the phone number out loud so it would be recorded for possible later use, and then continued, “I don’t recognize this phone number, but this code on the right, lower corner is my code for Sparky’s Club. We leave stacks of cards around town. This code let’s me know where the potential client got the card.”

  “So that’s your handwriting?”

  “Yes. I see this has been dusted for prints. It’s possible you’ll find mine on the card. My prints are on file. I’m a Notary Public. Can you tell me what this is all about?” said Pearl.

  “It was found in the pocket of a murder victim this morning. That’s why I wanted to talk to this Mickey Malone guy.”

  “Well, your vic got this card at Sparky’s, not here,” shrugged Pearl.

  Woodward showed her a blown-up picture from Jackson’s Driver’s license.

  “You seen this guy before?” he asked.

  Pearl stared at it a few seconds, then answered, “Nope. I suggest you show that around at Sparky’s. But, if you want, I’ll copy it and show it to our detectives. They might know him.”

  “OK,” said Woodward, handing her a business card. “Have Mr. Malone call me when he shows up.”

  Pearl took the card without responding. She copied the picture and gave it back to the detective. Woodward let himself out. Pearl smiled.

  “A cop who thinks Mickey is real?” she mused. “Where’s he been? Mars? I better type up a report for Sam. He’ll want to find out what a murder victim was doing with one of our cards. I didn’t recognize him as a client. Hmm. He is familiar though. I’d better search my image files.”

  They didn’t need a cop running around town looking for Mickey Malone. Things could get ugly down at Sparky’s. Cops weren’t welcome there. She’d let Sam handle that problem.

  Chapter 18

  Friday, May 11, 2001

  Santa Ana, CA

  After sitting in on Becky’s class, Sam drove to the Mickey Malone office and arrived at 4:00 P.M. He wanted to check in with Pearl before heading back to the beach house for the weekend. He had only one active case here—with a defense attorney—and the trial had been delayed, so Sam was just stopping by to see if Pearl had anything new. The case with Carole was essentially on hold.

  He breezed into the office and Pearl jumped up from her desk and gave him a hug.

  “Good to see you, Sam!” she bubbled. “It’s been lonely today! Only one visitor all day!”

  He patted her on the butt and said, “You still sittin’ on that million bucks, Pearl? You’ll tell me if you ever get your cherry popped, won’t you? We’ll celebrate!”

  She released her hug and laughed, “I still have the same rules, Sambo. A ring on my finger and an ‘I do’ unlocks the goodie chest!”

  Sam headed toward his office and she tagged along. He said, “You don’t listen, Pearl. I’ve told you that approach hasn’t worked since the 50s. In this millennium, a man wants to sample the goods before he buys. You’re gonna die an old maid without ever knowing the ecstasy that awaits you.”

  “Then so be it. There must be a moral man out there somewhere for me,” she shrugged. “Want some coffee? I made a fresh pot about 30 minutes ago.”

  “Sure, that would be great. But you’ve still got it backwards. Sex is the bait—the clincher. Not the unknown, mysterious reward.”

  “What’s wrong with you men? Single men are always trying to get women in bed, married men cheat.”

  “Remember, Pearl, for every seducer, there is a seducee, and for every cheater, there’s a cheatee. There’s a willing woman every time.”

  “It shouldn’t be that way!”

  Pearl went to the pantry and poured two mugs of coffee and joined Sam in his office. She sat down in the client’s chair and crossed her legs, causing Sam to feel a twinge in his groin. God, he wished she were seducible!

  She took a sip of coffee and said, “The report on top is kinda interesting. An Orange County homicide cop came in this afternoon looking for Mick
ey.”

  “You’re shittin’ me! County sheriff’s cop?”

  “Yep.”

  “Must be new.”

  Sam skimmed through Pearl’s typed report and said, “You sent him to Sparky’s?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. That business card was from Sparky’s. Maybe someone there knew the victim. I didn’t tell him anything about Mickey, though—one way or the other. I sorta sidestepped the whole issue. I thought I’d let you handle it,” smiled Pearl. “The whole Mickey thing is your fault.”

  “God, that’s all we need! A dumb cop nosing around Sparky’s looking for Mickey!” laughed Sam. “I’d have liked to have seen that! Has Sparky called?”

  “No. Not yet. I don’t know why you get such a kick out of perpetuating this Mickey myth. Wonder why that guy picked up a Mickey card? The cop showed me a picture of the vic. Never seen him before,” replied Pearl as she unconsciously played with the top button of her blouse, driving Sam crazy. “But it was vaguely familiar. I meant to run it against my image file, but I forgot. I’ll do it before I go home.”

  Sam looked back at the report, needing to do something with his eyes.

  “Maybe he needed something to write this phone number on. You do a reverse check on it?”

  “Of course. Next page. A place called Dynology, Inc. in Irvine. Private line—not the main number. I didn’t do any background on them, because I didn’t know if you’d have any interest in spending time on this. You’re not a homicide cop anymore, you know.”

  “You don’t need to remind me. OK, Pearl, thanks for this report. I’ll talk to Sparky and see what went on down there. I might have to call someone at CID and have them clue in this new guy. I don’t need the cops messing with the Mickey Malone myth. I don’t need that can of worms to deal with.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent him to Sparky’s. I just thought there might be a real clue there.”

  “That’s OK, Pearl. You did the right thing. You can’t impede an official investigation. But to atone for your sins, you can come to the beach with me and I’ll show you the magical ways for catching a husband!”