The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  Farrell approached the door, staying off to the side. His flashlight was in his left hand, his revolver in his right.

  “Cover the basement door,” Farrell cautioned.

  Kearns positioned himself at the corner of the house, where he could cover the exterior basement door and the garage door and still keep his eye on Farrell. He held his pistol in both hands at low ready, flicking the safety down and off.

  Farrell holstered his revolver, switched on his flashlight, and tucked it under his arm. He reached into his coat and came out with his lock picks. Within a minute, Kearns saw him gently turn the door handle. He pocketed his lock picks, switched off the light, and again drew his revolver, motioning for Kearns to join him on the porch.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” Kearns whispered to him.

  “All burglary detectives worth a damn are,” Farrell whispered back. “You ready?”

  Kearns nodded. Farrell opened the door and they went in, the older man making entry first.

  The interior was dark, the only illumination coming from the flicker of a television in a room up ahead. The house smelled musty, and the faint odor of spoiled food emanated from the kitchen.

  The house was small, and Farrell and Kearns moved quickly from room to room, leading with their guns. They passed through a narrow hallway and peered around the corner into the main room. An overweight, gray-haired woman was sprawled in a recliner with her back to them, a bottle of vodka and a glass resting on the carpet at her feet. The television was tuned to Doogie Howser, M.D.

  Farrell lowered his gun and moved closer.

  “Hello,” he said softly, not wanting to alarm the woman. She didn’t respond. He moved even closer. “Excuse me,” he called out, afraid she’d wake up startled from her slumber, terrified by the two strangers in her home. She remained unmoving. Farrell walked between the woman and the television to visually announce his presence. Once he did, he realized the woman would never be startled again. He waved Kearns over.

  Kearns stepped forward and saw what Farrell had already seen. A large kitchen knife was buried in the woman’s chest. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was slack, and her hands remained lifeless at her sides. If it weren’t for the blade impaled in her breast, she could have been asleep. Farrell touched her bare arm.

  “Dead an hour at most,” he said. He turned her hands over. “No defensive wounds; by the looks of it, she got stuck while sleeping.”

  Kearns tapped the vodka bottle with his toe. “There are worse ways to go.”

  “Let’s check the rest of the house. He might still be here.”

  Farrell and Kearns swept the small house from room to room, their pistols gripped tightly, expecting him around every corner. They found no one. The last room they checked was the kitchen. Kearns pointed to the door leading down into the basement. Farrell pointed to the heavy-duty locks.

  “Work your magic,” Kearns said.

  Once again, Farrell withdrew his lock picks. This time, Kearns held the flashlight for him. It took a little longer because the locks were newer than the ones on the front door, but within a few minutes, the former SFPD inspector had them open. Kearns led them down the stairs with Farrell’s flashlight and his pistol leading the way.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Kearns found a light switch and elbowed it on. There was nobody inside the tiny basement apartment.

  What they did find when the lights came on was a bonanza. Perhaps a hundred beautifully crafted model airplanes hung suspended from the ceiling. The floor was littered with military magazines and books. A sofa rested in one corner and a large drafting table in the other. Farrell went into the small bathroom.

  “Check this out.” Kearns held up several empty cardboard ammunition boxes he found on the floor; their labels listed the contents as 9mm and .30 caliber.

  “Kevin, come here and take a look at this,” Farrell countered. Kearns stuck his head into the bathroom and saw the tub full of bloody towels, shredded, blood-soaked military fatigues, and bloodstained gauze. The sink contained several half-empty bottles of pills: antibiotics and painkillers.

  “Any more doubts?” Farrell asked Kearns.

  “None. Where do you suppose he is?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “You think he’ll be back?”

  “I doubt it,” Farrell said. “Not after saying goodbye to his mom with a butcher knife.”

  Farrell walked out of the bathroom. He scanned the room, his eyes finally lighting on the drafting table. The only two items on the table were an address book and a single model airplane. The plane was resting on top of the book. It was as if they were specifically left out on display to be found. He lifted the airplane, picked up the address book, and opened it.

  Farrell flipped through the pages. “This belongs to Paige Callen.”

  “He must have taken it from her condo,” Kearns said. “She hasn’t been home since the fire. Probably doesn’t even know it’s missing.”

  “This is how he found her housekeeper in Oakland,” Farrell stated.

  “And her aunt’s ranch in Napa.”

  Farrell handed the address book to Kearns. “She feels bad enough already. First chance you get, put it back in her condo; she doesn’t need to know.”

  Kearns accepted the book and pocketed it. “Thanks, Bob.”

  “Forget it.”

  Farrell looked down at the lone model airplane grounded on the drafting table. He picked it up and examined it. It was the only model aircraft in the basement that wasn’t hanging by filament from the ceiling as if in flight. He turned it over, wondering why that particular airplane was selected out of all the others to rest on Paige’s address book, and why a model plane even needed to sit atop the address book at all. The remains of the filament it had been hanging from was freshly cut and still attached to the fuselage.

  Kearns watched his partner scrutinize the toy plane. Farrell’s face suddenly lit up in revelation.

  “Shit,” Farrell cursed.

  “What is it?”

  “A Mitsubishi Zero,” Farrell proclaimed, tossing the model plane to the ground. “Come on, let’s go.” He headed for the stairs at a run.

  “What’s so special about an old Japanese airplane?” Kearns asked, puzzled. He raced up the stairs on Farrell’s heels.

  “It’s the weapon of the kamikaze,” Farrell shouted over his shoulder.

  “Oh, fuck,” Kearns said.

  CHAPTER 50

  Kearns and Farrell could see the smoke and flames as the Oldsmobile skidded to a stop on Dayton Avenue. The source was the Judge’s mansion. Several neighbors were standing on their porches and in their front yards, their mouths agape. Some were crying and pointing to the police car still parked in front of the Callen home. The black-and-white cruiser’s driver's side door was standing open, and a uniformed cop lay partially inside the car and partially on the street.

  When Farrell and Kearns jumped out of the Olds, their guns in hand, they could hear the faint wailing of multiple sirens beginning in the distance. They ran over to the police car. Kearns covered the house with his pistol while Farrell knelt and checked the downed officer’s vital signs.

  There weren’t any. Officer Joe McCord was dead from multiple gunshot wounds. The military rounds of the M1 carbine had punched through his ballistic vest like a hot knife through soft butter. McCord’s lifeless eyes stared up at the sky. His revolver was still in its holster.

  “Not even an asshole like McCord deserved to get it this way,” Farrell said, standing up. “Never even had a chance to clear leather.”

  Sporadic gunshots could be heard from inside the house, the rapid report of a semi-auto rifle interspersed with the sounds of a large-caliber handgun.

  “We have to go in now,” Kearns said, gripping Farrell’s shoulder. “We can’t wait.”

  “I know.”

  Farrell reached into the patrol car and unlatched the Remington police shotgun from its vertical dashboard mount. He also took McCord’s revolve
r from its scabbard and handed it to Kearns.

  “I’ll go in the front,” Kearns announced, accepting the cop’s gun and stuffing it into his waistband. “You go in the back. We’ll meet the bastard in the middle.”

  Farrell patted his partner on the shoulder and winked.

  “See you inside,” he said, and took off.

  Kearns ran to the front door. He didn’t bother to check if it was locked. He kicked it open, splintering the jamb, and went in.

  Intense heat met him. Shadows flickered with the flames, which were dancing across the curtains, walls, and carpets. Kearns looked down the hallway and saw the mountain of Deputy Charlie White lying on the floor ahead. Kearns moved forward, covering the corners with his .45. He stepped on numerous expended .30 caliber casings as he advanced.

  Charlie was dead, his huge torso riddled with bullet holes. His revolver lay near his hand; the legendary lawman hadn’t gone down without a fight. Kearns moved on, the fire raging around him.

  In the study, Kearns found Paige and the Judge. They were across the spacious room. The Judge was on the ground, dazedly looking up at the man standing over them. Paige was sprawled across her father, shielding him with her body. It appeared Paige had retreated there, dragging her father in an attempt to take refuge behind the big mahogany desk when confronted by her stalker.

  “Out of the way, slut,” the man said, “or I’ll shoot through you.”

  He was wearing a long coat and leather gloves, and holding a cut-down M1 carbine in his right hand. In his left was a Molotov cocktail with the improvised fuse already lit. His back was to Kearns.

  Kearns knew with Paige and her father on the ground and the gunman standing up, he’d never get a better shot. Paige’s eyes unconsciously transferred from the gunman to Kearns. The stalker saw them move.

  He spun, bringing up the carbine. Kearns let loose, emptying the magazine of his pistol into the gunman’s chest. The impact of eight .45 slugs sent the man, who was of slight build, stumbling backward and careening to the ground. He landed on his butt, his back against the bookshelves. He fired the carbine one-handed as he came to rest, sending a rapid-fire volley in Kearns’ direction. The Molotov cocktail fell into his lap without breaking.

  Kearns dropped to the floor as bullets slammed into the walls around him. He realized as the carbine continued its barrage that his adversary was again wearing body armor. He discarded the empty .45 and drew the dead cop’s revolver from his belt.

  Kearns lay on his stomach and brought up the wheelgun in a two-handed, prone-supported firing position straight out of the police academy manual. He thumbed the hammer back. He felt Farrell’s presence above him, the shotgun in his hands.

  The stalker’s carbine had run dry. He released it and drew a black pistol from his own waistband. Instead of aiming it at Kearns and Farrell, however, he swiveled the handgun ninety degrees to point the weapon at Paige and her father. The man’s eyes were raging with merciless wrath. A skeletal leer adorned his burn-scarred features, lending him a demonic appearance in the radiance of the surrounding fire.

  “Fucking slut,” he screamed. Paige cringed, awaiting the bullet.

  Farrell and Kearns both fired.

  Kearns emptied his revolver, the .357 magnum bucking in his hands. Farrell fired all four shotgun rounds, pumping the action as fast as he could. One of their rounds struck the Molotov cocktail, instantly igniting the homemade napalm inside and engulfing Raymond Cowell/Ray Pascoe in an exploding fireball. The wall of books behind him was consumed by the firebomb.

  Kearns pushed himself to his feet as Farrell dropped the shotgun. They ran to Paige. Farrell grabbed her by the arm and Kearns picked up the Judge in a fireman’s carry. They scurried out of the study as Ray Pascoe was immolated. He thrashed and twitched, his maniacal shrieks reverberating in their ears as they fled.

  The house’s interior was fully engulfed; the Molotov cocktails had done their job. Flames licked at them as they raced down the hallway, past the body of Charlie White, and through the front door.

  They were met by firefighters and police officers.

  “Anybody else still inside?” a firefighter asked. He had to yell to be heard over the roar of the fire and the engines of the numerous emergency vehicles that filled the street.

  “Nobody alive,” Farrell told him.

  A firefighter led them across the yard and out to the street where an ambulance waited. Kearns shrugged the Judge off his shoulders and onto a waiting gurney. An oxygen mask was placed over his nose and mouth. The Judge was still conscious. He squeezed Kearns’ arm in gratitude. Kearns gave him a thumbs-up and a weak smile. The ambulance drove away, its siren screeching.

  Paige went into his arms, trembling and sobbing. Kearns held her and watched the fire digest her father’s house.

  Farrell extracted his flask and took a long drink. After he replaced his flask, he lit a cigarette and looked over at his partner. Kearns met his eyes.

  “Not a bad day’s work,” Farrell said, exhaling smoke.

  “For a part-time detective,” Kearns said.

  CHAPTER 51

  Sergeant Randy Wendt walked out of the house, tucking in his shirt. His hair was disheveled and his suit coat and tie were slung over the crook of his arm. He didn’t see Farrell walk up behind him. Farrell had a manila envelope in his left hand, and his right was tucked inside the pocket of his raincoat.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Wendt,” he exclaimed loudly.

  Startled, Wendt turned around.

  “Bob Farrell,” he said with a grunt. His eyes darted briefly back to the house. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Not very friendly today, are we?”

  “Why should I be? I’ve got a dead cop on my hands, thanks to you.”

  “How is that my fault?”

  “If you and your idiot sidekick had called us when you first learned who Ray Cowell was, maybe McCord would still be alive.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Farrell said. “Don’t blame me for your incompetence. It isn’t my fault we discovered his identity first. Besides, if we’d called the cops, you’d have pissed away days building probable cause, writing warrants, and getting permission from bureaucrats. Paige Callen and her father would be dead alongside McCord and Deputy White.”

  “What do you care? You got paid, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Farrell gloated. “Handsomely, too. I could buy a small Caribbean island with what the Judge paid me.”

  Wendt glared at Farrell. “I’m busy,” he said. “I’ve got things to do. McCord’s funeral is tomorrow.”

  “The funeral is at Saint Joseph’s Basilica in Alameda, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t tell me you plan on attending?” Wendt said. “There was no love lost between you and McCord.”

  “That depends on you,” Farrell said.

  “On me?”

  “Here you go, Sergeant.” He handed Wendt the manila envelope. “I brought you a present.”

  “What’s this?”

  “You weren’t being honest with me,” Farrell said as Wendt accepted the envelope. “You told me you didn’t know Officer McCord very well. I believe you said, ‘We don’t swing in the same circles’. You lied to me, Sergeant Wendt.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the facts; I checked. I’m a detective, remember?”

  “You don’t know shit,” Wendt challenged. But his eyes looked worried.

  “I know you were his primary training officer and the best man at his wedding.”

  “Big fucking deal. I trained a lot of new recruits. And you know yourself cops get married and divorced like other people buy cars. I’ve been the best man at so many weddings, I could be ordained.”

  “I know some other things, too,” Farrell went on. “I know you were the one who strong-armed Kevin Kearns’ landlord into evicting him. And I know it was you who set me up for the stomping I took in the garage at my apartment in San Francisco. You invited me for a drink to give
Joe McCord time to stage his brother and his pal Lerner in my garage. And when I left the bar too soon, you had me pulled over to buy time for the setup.”

  A wicked smile etched across Wendt’s face. “Even if I did, you can’t prove anything.”

  “I don’t have to; I’m not a court of law. Take a look in the envelope, why don’t you?”

  Wendt opened the envelope. It was full of 8x10 high-resolution photographs. Sergeant Randy Wendt was depicted in every one of them.

  “I initially thought it was McCord who set me up,” Farrell said. “So I went to his house in Pinole to begin a tail to get some dirt on him; I wanted some leverage to make him leave me alone. But the funniest thing happened; not five minutes after he left for work, you showed up. You went into his house and you stayed there for almost two hours.”

  Wendt’s face turned red. He sifted through the pictures. Farrell went on.

  “You’ll notice from the first several pictures,” Farrell pointed out, “you’re wearing your suit when you go in. But when you come out, you’re putting on your shirt, just like today.” He grinned. “I believe we’re standing in front of the late Officer McCord’s house right now, aren’t we?”

  Wendt’s face went from red to white.

  “Those last few pictures, on the bottom of the stack,” Farrell explained, “the ones where you’re playing naked leapfrog with McCord’s chubby wife? I took those through the window. You should tell her to close the blinds, Randy; you never can tell who’s watching.” His grin widened. “With a telephoto lens.”

  Wendt finally shuffled through the stack to the last photograph. His hand trembled slightly when he held it.

  “That last one I took of your wife and kids in Antioch,” Farrell said. “To prove that I know where you live.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Wendt snarled. He dropped the pictures and threw his right fist at Farrell’s head.

  Farrell knew the punch was coming before Wendt did, and his hand darted out from his pocket. He was wielding the leather sap McCord’s ex-cop brother had used on him. Farrell slammed the blackjack against the inside of Wendt’s right forearm, and then his left, as he swung punches. Both of the detective sergeant’s arms fell limply to his sides. He gasped in pain.