The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  Kearns dropped the binoculars and picked up the duffel bag. He knew from his own military experience that stenciled on the bag would be the name of the person who was originally issued the item. Sure enough, on the side in faded block letters was the name Pascoe, Arnold R., along with a pre-Social Security-era military serial number. He picked up the sleeping bag next.

  The sleeping bag was a mummy-shaped US Army cold-weather model. Like the duffel bag, its once-green color was faded to an almost tan hue. Inside the bag, at the top of the cocoon where the lining began, was the standard white US Government label the military affixed to everything made of cloth it issued.

  Kearns, again from his own army experience, knew that soldiers typically hand-marked their sleeping bags with their own names to distinguish them from the countless other identical bags in their unit. The faded but still-legible handwritten name on the label read A.R. Pascoe.

  Used army sleeping bags and duffel bags were items that could be purchased at any one of thousands of military surplus stores across America. They could even be ordered by mail and delivered to your home. But many troops kept their rucksacks, duffel bags, and sleeping bags after finishing their tours; Kearns had kept those items himself. The fact that both the sleeping bag and the duffel belonged to the same owner made their acquisition at a surplus outlet highly unlikely.

  He scratched his head. It seemed implausible that the killer would make so glaring an error as to leave traceable items lying around, especially in light of the considerable effort he had expended thus far to ensure his identity was not compromised. Farrell had told him even the 9mm bullet casings found at the attempted kidnapping scene, and inside the Judge’s house, were devoid of fingerprints.

  Maybe the suspect hadn’t intended to leave the items? Perhaps he’d expected to return to his improvised watchtower and retrieve them? What if his hasty retreat, brought about by his unforeseen injuries, had precluded him from going back the way he came and recovering the tools he’d brought to assist him in his psychotic game of cat-and-mouse?

  Kearns pondered a moment, came up with an idea. He arrived at his choice by asking himself, “What would Bob Farrell do?”

  Using the bayonet, Kearns cut away the portions of the duffel and the sleeping bag label that contained the names. Then he wiped the binoculars and bayonet with the sleeping bag to eliminate the possibility of his own fingerprints. He tucked the identifying tags into his shoe.

  Taking a deep breath, he picked up the shotgun and began descending the hill toward Elsa Callen’s house.

  CHAPTER 42

  When Kearns came down the hill, he was accosted by the sheriff’s deputies at gunpoint. He was ordered to drop his shotgun and lie face down on the ground. He got handcuffed before they would accept either his or Paige’s explanation of who he was. He understood why and didn’t complain.

  Once the deputies were convinced Kearns wasn’t a criminal, he was able to give them a general description of the suspect, his vehicle, and the direction he was going when last seen. It wasn’t much.

  He learned that Paige had reached the highway and flagged down a passing motorist. The motorist was a San Francisco businessman who, along with his wife, was getting an early start on touring the wineries. They drove Paige to a convenience store where she was able to phone the sheriff’s department, identifying herself as an Alameda County deputy district attorney. Minutes later, Elsa’s call was also received by the sheriff’s department. Two deputies picked Paige up and drove to Elsa’s house, with lights and siren, where they made her remain in the backseat while they entered her aunt’s home with revolvers drawn. It was a tense few minutes for Paige until the deputies emerged. When they came out with Elsa leaning on their arms, injured but alive, Paige’s worst fears went unrealized. She cried in relief.

  Elsa was taken by ambulance to the Kaiser Hospital in Napa for treatment and Cody was driven to a veterinary hospital. Elsa repeatedly had to assure Paige it wasn’t her fault, as she was loaded into the ambulance. Paige hugged her aunt and promised to meet her at the hospital later.

  Soon more deputies arrived, some of them detectives. Not long afterward, a crime scene wagon rolled up and disembarked a crew of technicians who began to process Elsa’s kitchen for evidence. Kearns watched as they took samples of the suspect’s blood from the patio and inside the house; Kearns ruefully wished he’d left it all.

  The deputies wouldn’t let Paige and Kearns speak with each other until they had taken their statements separately. Kearns retreated to the cottage with a detective, giving Paige a weak smile and a wave as he went. She remained with two other detectives and gave her own statement, including a synopsis of the events that had transpired in Alameda during the past week, the reason for her being in Napa in the first place. She listened impatiently as one of the deputy sergeants called Sergeant Wendt to verify her story.

  Once Kearns gave his statement, he was asked to walk a deputy and a crime scene technician back over the steep hills behind Elsa’s property to reenact his pursuit and gun battle with the suspect. It would be the fourth time he would mount the steep hills overlooking the Callen property within a couple of hours, and he was running out of gas. He asked permission to get a snack from inside the house, in the pantry, which was separate from the kitchen, promising not to disturb the crime scene. The deputy consented and let him enter the house through the front door as he waited outside.

  Once inside, Kearns headed not for the pantry as he had told the deputy, but into the study belonging to Elsa’s deceased husband. There he picked up the phone and dialed Bob Farrell’s apartment, hoping his partner was still home. He checked his watch; it was almost 11 o’clock in the morning.

  “Farrell,” the creaky voice over the line greeted him. Kearns could only wonder how many unfiltered Camel cigarettes and bourbon-laced coffees his partner had consumed for breakfast.

  “Bob; it’s Kevin,” he said urgently.

  “Sorry I didn’t call you last night,” Farrell began, “I was–”

  “Shut up, will you? I haven’t got much time. The place is crawling with cops.”

  “Cops?” Farrell’s voice perked up.

  “Yeah. Paige’s stalker showed up this morning. Attacked the house after Paige and I left for a jog. Shot the place up–”

  “Paige’s aunt?” he interrupted.

  “She was injured, but she’s OK. Listen, I found a makeshift observation post in the woods where the suspect must have been watching the house. He left some gear stashed there. I found a name on two of the items: a military sleeping bag and duffel bag. It was the same name.”

  “Why would he leave something with his name on it?” Farrell asked incredulously.

  “I don’t believe he intended to. His plan got changed after he got mauled by a Labrador retriever and burned with a frying pan full of cooking grease. Got a pencil?”

  “I do; go ahead.”

  “The last name is Pascoe, the first name is Arnold. Middle initial is R.” Kearns spelled out Pascoe for him.

  “Anybody else know about this?”

  “Nope; I covered my tracks.”

  “Well played,” Farrell said. “You’re starting to think like a true detective.”

  “I don’t want the cops to bag this jerk before I get my hands on him. I’m beginning to take getting shot at personally.”

  “We’ll get him, Kevin,” Farrell assured him. “And before the cops do. That’s why we get paid the big bucks.”

  “I don’t care about the money,” Kearns said. “I want my mitts around his neck.”

  “You and me both.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Kearns said. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  “Before you go, I have to ask,” Farrell said, “any idea how this guy knew Paige was in Napa?”

  “Don’t know. But he sure seems to know her every move.”

  “He sure does.”

  “One more thing, Bob; he’s hurt. Pretty bad, I think. He left a lot of blood at t
he scene. For what it’s worth.”

  “Hopefully, it means he’ll be out of commission for a while.”

  “Not this guy; he never quits.” Kearns hung up and raced to the pantry. He grabbed a container of orange juice and an apple, then ran to the front door. He slowed to a nonchalant walk as he exited the house.

  CHAPTER 43

  It was early afternoon by the time Bob Farrell hobbled into the Alameda hospital. His banged-up body was stiff and sore, and he still couldn’t stand fully upright. He sported an ugly purple bruise on the side of his jaw and neck.

  He’d spent a busy hour on the phone after Kearns called him from Napa. It was Sunday, and most of Farrell’s former cronies still employed by SFPD had enough seniority to be off on weekends. He telephoned virtually every contact he still had at the San Francisco Police Department until he finally found an acquaintance to help him. The only person he could cajole into scanning the records for the name “Arnold R. Pascoe” came up empty. There were plenty of Pascoes in the Department of Motor Vehicles and criminal databases, all right, but nobody with the first name Arnold who matched the suspect’s general description and profile.

  He showered, dressed, and wheeled his Oldsmobile through the city traffic over the Bay Bridge to Alameda.

  When he arrived at the Alameda hospital, he was encouraged by the Judge’s transfer from the intensive care unit into a regular room. A bored-looking, uniformed Alameda policeman recognized Farrell and motioned him into the Judge’s hospital room after briefly glancing up from his magazine. The Judge looked up when Farrell walked in.

  “Hello, Bob,” the Judge said. He had only a hint of the impaired speech he’d developed in the wake of the attack several days previous. His face no longer seemed paralyzed, and he appeared rested and alert. The remains of his lunch sat on a tray next to the bed, and he was sipping a glass of 7UP through a straw. If he noticed Farrell’s battered condition, he didn’t mention it.

  “You look well, Your Honor,” Farrell said, shaking his hand. He found Judge Callen’s handshake firm. “I see they’ve got you on solid food; that’s a good sign.”

  “The doctors are telling me I’ll make a full recovery. I’m almost there now. I’m getting released this afternoon.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Any news from your partner?” the Judge asked. “Or Paige?”

  “That’s why I’m here. Her stalker paid a visit to your sister’s home in Napa this morning.”

  “Is Paige–”

  “Take it easy; she’s fine. Your sister sustained some injury, but she’s going to be OK. Kevin shooed him off, but the bastard got away.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Farrell shook his head. “No offense, but I don’t know the details and there’s no time. I didn’t come here to report what happened in Napa. I need your help. Kevin came up with a solid lead, and I need to move on it.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Does the name Arnold Pascoe mean anything to you?”

  The Judge canted his head. “Seems to ring a bell, but I can’t place it. Why?”

  “The name’s connected to our man. I have a hunch it’s a name that may not be found in any of the current computer records.”

  “I sat on the bench in Alameda County for over forty years, Bob. A lot of people came and went. My memory isn’t what it used to be, even before the knock on my head.”

  “Can you think of anybody who might know?”

  Callen snapped his fingers. “Deputy Charlie White. He was my bailiff. He’s still working at the courthouse; he’s been there as long as I have. He’s an institution. Should have retired years ago but won’t. Has no family. Just shows up at court every day, like the rising of the sun. Old Charlie has a memory like an elephant. If this Pascoe fellow is anyone connected to me or Paige through the courts, Charlie would remember.”

  “How do I reach Deputy White?”

  “He lives in town. An apartment off Buena Vista Avenue, I believe. Hand me the phone and I’ll call the duty district attorney’s inspector; he can give me White’s address and phone number.”

  Farrell brought the phone over to Callen’s bed. The Judge paused before he dialed. “You still carrying that flask of Kentucky bourbon around with you?”

  “I am,” Farrell answered. “You sure it’s a good idea in your condition?”

  “I’ll forget you said that,” Judge Callen said, holding out his glass of 7UP.

  CHAPTER 44

  Ray Cowell lay on the couch in agony, waiting for a knock on the door.

  The pain in his left arm was barely tolerable, in his left leg significantly worse, and in the left side of his face and neck excruciating. He rocked his body back and forth, his fists and teeth clenched. Every few seconds, he slammed his good arm into the wall over his head and cursed. It had been a disastrous two days.

  Ray drove back to the Bay Area from Napa in record time. As he drove, his mind reeled from the catastrophic outcome of what he’d thought were well-laid plans. As a result of his carelessness, he went from what was supposed to be a triumphant victory to almost being killed at the hands of a feral dog and a crazy old woman. Instead of reveling in the slut’s final, glorious suffering, he’d been forced to retreat for his life. He’d fled in wounded terror, leaving his gear behind.

  He still didn’t know what propelled him around the hills and back to his car. All he could remember was staggering blindly to the vehicle, dizzy with pain and shock.

  The whore’s boyfriend nearly caught him. When Ray looked up and saw him sprinting down the hill, shirtless and covered in dust, his heart almost stopped. The son of a bitch looked like Tarzan, had a shotgun in his hands, and was tearing up the ground between them like a marauding tiger. The expression on his face, even at a distance, told Ray that taking prisoners wasn’t the young man’s intention.

  Ray saw him just in time. He opened up with the M1 carbine, and when the boyfriend was forced to hit the dirt, he used the time to get into his car and make his escape. It had been close. His blue Hyundai now sported a number of 00 buckshot holes in its body and a spider-webbed windshield, courtesy of the man’s return fire.

  As Ray sped back to the Bay Area, blood seeped from his shirt and trousers and soaked the seat of his car. He was oddly grateful for the pain, because it kept him from blacking out. He spent most of the drive back frantically checking his rearview mirror.

  By the time Ray tucked his compact sedan safely into his garage, he was almost unable to stand. He wanted to pass out, but the searing pain of his injuries again kept him from drifting into that welcome abyss.

  Once inside his basement, he wasted no time. He went directly to the bathroom and stripped off his shredded camouflage fatigues in the tub. A nauseous Ray examined his wounds in the mirror.

  The first thing Ray noticed was his face. The left side, stretching from his temple to his neckline, was a pulpy mass of raised blisters and welts. His eyebrow was gone, and his left ear was a tacky, raised blob of flesh. The pain was immense, and when he risked a touch, the pressure from his hand in some spots sent waves of torture rippling through his head; in other spots, he felt nothing at all. According to the military first aid manuals he’d read, that meant the burns he sustained were somewhere between second and third degree.

  He looked at his left arm. There were several deep puncture wounds on opposite sides of his forearm. He had no trouble moving his wrist, which meant no tendon or ligament damage. But the wounds were gaping and had only stopped bleeding profusely within the past half hour.

  His left thigh was dotted with similar wounds. The aching sensation deep in the leg indicated extensive muscle damage. These wounds, like the holes in his arm, had only just stopped bleeding.

  Ray knew he was lucky. The dog bites, like most animal bites, would require no stitches. He knew the way to treat puncture wounds was to thoroughly disinfect them, cleanse them regularly, and leave them open to drain.

  But Ray also knew from his mi
litary field medical guide that the germs from the animal’s mouth would be embedded to the depth of the bite and could be expected to go septic almost immediately.

  Ray hobbled from the bathroom and retrieved a phone number from a roster of all Maersk employees he’d obtained at work. He dialed the number, and the phone was picked up by the second ring.

  “Security,” a gruff voice answered.

  “I want to speak with Jimmy Chavez,” Ray said, trying to keep normality in his voice.

  After a brief wait, another voice came on the line.

  “Chavez,” said the voice.

  “Jimmy, it’s me, Ray. I’ve got a serious problem.”

  “Where you been? I ain’t seen you around for days,” Chavez said.

  “I’ve been on vacation,” Ray said, struggling to keep the anguish from his tone. “I need your help. I’ll pay.”

  “That depends on the kind of help you need,” Chavez said.

  James “Jimmy” Chavez was a part-time security guard at the Port of Oakland shipyards. He was also a full-time crook. If you needed something and were unwilling to pay full retail price, especially if you weren’t overly concerned with the temperature of the item, Jimmy Chavez was your man.

  Ray knew he sold marijuana and methamphetamines and just about any other drug you could think of to the longshoremen at the shipyards, and that his part-time security gig was not his primary source of income. The security guard job merely gave him access to the dock workers who were the main purchasers of his illicit wares.

  “I need medical supplies. Painkillers. Antibiotics.”

  “I get it,” Chavez chuckled. “You’ve been on vacation partying and caught yourself some drippy-dick. Gotta watch out for that funky pussy, Ray-Ray. That shit will make your junk shrivel up and fall off. What’s the matter; too embarrassed to go to the free clinic yourself?”

  “I’m hurting, Jimmy. I’ve got money. You going to help me or not?”