The Falling Girl

by Thomas Fincham

  As he moved from room to room, he saw garbage and debris everywhere. There were mattresses and worn-out cushions on the floor. People were lying on them with needles sticking out of their arms and legs. Their eyes told him they were in a place far, far away.

  He scanned their faces until he saw who he was looking for. She was on the floor next to the bathtub. The bathroom was grimy, and the putrid smell made him cover his nose. He fought his gag reflex as he stood in the confined space.

  Tamara Davis was wearing tattered clothes and dirty shoes. Her hair was coarse, looking like it had not been washed in months. Her nails were long and yellow.

  As he stared at her, he could feel anger rise up in him. “Tamara, what the hell you doing here?”

  She turned her head in his direction. Her eyes were distant, but a smile broke across her face, revealing stained and chipped teeth. “Hey Osman, whatch you doin’ here?” she asked.

  “I’ve been searching the entire city for you,” he replied.

  “I was right here the whole time,” she said.

  He could tell she was high. “What’s wrong with you?” he growled. “I give you money, and the first thing you do is get all jacked up.”

  “A girl gotta have some fun, right?”

  “I should have left you where I found you.”

  She was still smiling when she said, “If you did that, then how would you have gotten all that money, huh?”

  “Shut your mouth!” he said, raising his voice. He looked around. There was no one else in the bathroom.

  She was not deterred. “I am your ATM. Isn’t that what you said? You have to be nice to me, or else I will go to the police and tell them I didn’t really see Dillon Scott that night. I really saw—”

  “Shut your trap,” he snapped. “Someone could hear you.”

  She put her finger to her lips. “Shhhhh… I won’t tell no one. Your secret is safe with me.”

  She burst out laughing.

  He balled his fists. He wanted to make her stop laughing, but instead he walked out of the bathroom and left the crack house.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jimmy eyed the Impala’s interior and frowned. “What happened to the Charger?”

  Callaway was behind the wheel. He let out a long sigh and told him.

  Jimmy shook his head. “Kid, you never put something irreplaceable at risk.” Jimmy was fully aware of how much the car meant to Callaway. He had many opportunities to sell or lose the car, but he always managed to hold on to it. The Charger was the one constant thing in his otherwise unstable life.

  They pulled up to a house.

  Jimmy said, “You sure it’s the right place?”

  It was a detached two-story with a long driveway and a double garage. “It’s the right address. And take a look.” Callaway pointed to a cargo van parked by the front of the house. “It’s the same van that pulled up next to Frank’s eighteen-wheeler.”

  Callaway had snapped a photo of the van’s license plate number. Once he had that, it was easy to locate the van’s owner.

  “It’s registered to a Boban Milodovic,” Callaway said.

  Jimmy stuck his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out a shiny police badge. Prior to getting into the PI business, Jimmy worked for the Miami Police Department. Jimmy had pissed off his superiors so much that they made his life so difficult, he was forced to quit.

  “They let you keep it?” Callaway asked, surprised.

  “Of course not. I know a guy who can make exact replicas. He’s so good he can get you a passport that will fool any Transport Security Officer. Now let’s go and talk to this guy.”

  They got out and approached the house. Callaway knocked on the door and waited. A minute later, a tall, skinny man answered. His head was shaved, and he had tattoos going up his arms.

  “Who are you?” the man asked with a scowl.

  Jimmy said, “Boban Milodovic?”

  “I don’t know that name,” he shot back.

  Jimmy held up his badge. “Lying to a police officer is against the law.”

  The moment Boban saw the badge, his bravado evaporated. “Hey man, I was just playing. What can I do for you, officer?”

  Jimmy turned to Callaway. He pulled out a photo and held it for Boban. “Do you mind explaining what’s going on here?”

  Boban grimaced. “Oh man,” he said.

  “Are you selling narcotics or illegal drugs?” Callaway asked.

  Boban waved his hands. “No, no, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m a wholesaler.”

  Callaway was confused. “Wholesaler?”

  “Yeah, let me show you.”

  He opened the garage door. Inside were boxes upon boxes of goods. Callaway and Jimmy spotted a TV in the corner, stereo systems, DVD players, jackets, shoes, even razor blades and deodorants.

  Boban said, “People sell me stuff, and I then resell it to small businesses.”

  “They sell you stolen goods, don’t they?” Callaway said.

  Boban shrugged. “I don’t ask them where they get it from.”

  “So you were meeting Frank Henderson to buy goods?” Callaway asked.

  “I don’t know who that is, but my contact told me to go meet the guy with the truck. I take my cousin with me to help me load the stuff in my van.”

  “Who’s your contact?”

  “A lady.”

  “Is her name Sandra Ledford?”

  “I don’t know her last name, but she told me to call her Sandra.”

  Callaway turned to Jimmy. “It’s the woman with Frank.”

  Jimmy nodded. He turned to Boban and said, “Boban, tell us everything you know, and we may consider not charging you with profiting from stolen property.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Fisher hung up the phone and shook her head. Holt was on the other end. He was going insane listening to all the speeches at the law enforcement conference in Vegas. It was supposed to have been a retreat for him, but all he did was complain about how bored he was. Nancy was having a great time. While he was at the conference, she was spending her day at the spa or shopping. They would go to dinner in the evening, and they had even caught a few musicals. Seeing Nancy happy made the conference tolerable for him, or else he would have been on the next available flight back to Milton.

  Holt adored his wife, and he was devoted to her. They had endured a lot as a couple.

  Tragedy can tear a couple apart, but in their case, tragedy made their relationship much stronger.

  They were an odd couple. Holt was tough and gruff, and Nancy was tiny and pleasant. What they each lacked, the other made up for. They complemented each other like no one Fisher had seen before.

  Holt wanted details on the Dillon Scott case. He had a TV and internet in his hotel suite, so he was following the murder case with great interest. Did she have a suspect in sight? Had she found a motive? Was the department pressuring her to solve the case quickly?

  After making some excuse, she finally had to end the call. She didn’t want him getting too involved at this stage of the investigation. He would turn into an armchair detective and call her every hour for an update.

  If she didn’t solve the case by the time he returned, she would fill him in on everything—he was her partner, after all—but until then, she was on her own.

  She turned her attention back to a piece of paper on her desk. Prior to Holt’s telephone call, she was studying Dillon Scott’s phone logs.

  Unfortunately, they were of no use to her.

  Scott had made several calls on the day he died. One was to his wife, another to his agent, and a couple were to a prepaid number that was not registered to anyone. Fisher had considered trying to trace that number, but she doubted it would be much help. The Milton PD did not have access to the same technology that perhaps the National Security Agency or the Department of Homeland Security might have. They couldn’t pinpoint a target’s exact location or listen in on their conversations. The most the Milton PD could do was triangulate which
cell tower the signal had pinged from. This was unnecessary because she already had an idea of where these calls originated from.

  They were made between six thirty and seven thirty PM. The first one was at six forty, a few minutes before the taxi picked Scott up. The last and final call was at seven twenty-two, a few minutes after the taxi driver had dropped Scott off at Yonge Avenue.

  This further reinforced Fisher’s belief that Scott had taken the taxi to meet someone and that this person had guided him to where they were supposed to meet. It explained why Scott had constantly checked his phone throughout the day.

  But what about the backpack he was seen carrying in the taxi’s CCTV camera? What did he do with that?

  Fisher sighed. She almost wished the department had sent her to the conference in Vegas as well. Unlike Holt, she didn’t mind listening to people share their experiences in law enforcement. Their stories might have given her ideas about how to solve Scott’s murder.

  FORTY

  The station wagon was parked in the driveway. Callaway and Jimmy waited outside while Frank and Ledford went inside the house.

  Callaway believed Frank was taking detours during his routine deliveries where people were handing him envelopes of monies for goods they took off his eighteen-wheeler. At the end of the day, he would drive Ledford to her house, where she and her husband would count the money. Once they were satisfied it was all there, Frank would then head home to his wife and children.

  Callaway was still not sure how Frank was involved in all of this, but he could tell by his demeanor it was not by choice.

  He watched as Frank came out of the house, got in his pickup, and drove off. Callaway turned to Jimmy and said, “Let me handle this.”

  “You sure?” Jimmy asked.

  “I am,” Callaway replied. If things went south, he did not want Jimmy involved. Plus, he had brought his weapon as backup.

  He got out, walked up to the house, and knocked on the front door.

  The door swung open and he was face-to-face with Sandra. She was wearing a jacket and skirt, and she reeked of cigarettes.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Sandra Wolkoff?” Callaway asked.

  She blinked. Callaway knew why. She had not heard anyone call her by that name since she left Michigan as a felon.

  “I… don’t… know who…?” she stammered.

  “Or do you prefer I call you Sandra Ledford?” Callaway said.

  A man appeared behind her. He was tall, skinny, and he had on a sweatshirt and dirty jeans. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Carl Wolkoff, I presume,” Callaway replied. “Or do you prefer I call you Carl Wibley?”

  He froze just like his wife had.

  Callaway pulled out his business card, the one that read Gator Peckerwood—a fake name Callaway used whenever he wanted to shield his identity—and held it out. “I’ve been hired by your employer to investigate the theft of their property.”

  “Theft?” Carl and Sandra said in unison, trying to act surprised.

  “Yes, and my investigation has led me to you both.”

  “Us?” Again, they resorted to mock surprise.

  Callaway produced photos of Frank with Boban and his cousin. He also produced photos of Frank with Sandra.

  “What does this have to do with us?” Sandra asked. “This looks like Frank is responsible for the theft in our company. You should have him arrested.”

  “The photos may show that, but Boban Milodovic—” Callaway pointed him out just in case they tried to deny it, “—doesn’t know who Frank Henderson is, but he does know a woman named Sandra. I’m sure if I played a recording of your voice to him, he would confirm you are his contact. I also checked your company’s records. You are the account manager for their shipping department.” Callaway turned to Carl. “I also found out that a Carl Wibley works at the company’s loading dock.”

  Carl averted his eyes.

  “This is what I think happens,” Callaway said. “You, Sandra, have access to all the goods that are shipped out each day. You alter the invoices by omitting a certain number of items. A box here, a box there, nothing too obvious to raise any red flags, but it can be substantial over the course of a month or a year. Now, Carl here loads all the goods into Frank’s eighteen-wheeler, but he separates the omitted items. Frank delivers those items to your contacts and collects the money, which he hands over to you at the end of his shift. The actual recipients are never aware that they are missing any items because what is on the invoices is what is being delivered to them. If there is anything not on the invoice that they had requested, they would call you, Sandra, and you would tell them the item was out of stock or give them some other excuse, and that you will make sure they get it in the next delivery. Have I understood how it works, or am I completely off base?”

  Sandra and Carl stayed silent.

  “I also know that a Sandra Wolkoff and a Carl Wolkoff are wanted in Michigan for fraud and theft,” Callaway added. “I’m certain your employer was not aware of this when they hired you both.”

  The blood had drained from Sandra’s and Carl’s faces. “What… what do you want?” Carl asked.

  “First, tell me what the deal is with Frank Henderson,” Callaway said.

  Carl bit his lip and then exhaled. He knew the jig was up. “When we came up with the plan, we knew we could not do it without a driver on our side. We approached a couple of drivers, but we knew right away they were either straight and would rat us out, or they were crooked and would screw us. Sandra happened to talk to Frank and found out his wife had an accident.”

  Callaway remembered Betty mentioning her accident.

  “Frank was drowning in debt from the medical bills. We decided to help him out.”

  “How much?” Callaway asked.

  “Close to twelve thousand dollars.”

  Callaway grimaced. No wonder Frank looked defeated, Callaway thought. It was a lot of money.

  Callaway said, “And now he works for you until his debt is repaid.”

  “Yes,” Carl replied.

  “It’s repaid as of now,” Callaway said firmly.

  “What do you mean?” Sandra shot back.

  “I mean, you are done with your operation, and Frank doesn’t owe you a penny.” Callaway could see they were not too happy, but he wanted a commitment out of them. “Listen, I have to file a report to your employer regarding my investigation. If you don’t want me to include what I’ve uncovered, then you’ll do what I say. Do you understand?”

  Carl looked at his wife and then nodded. “Yes, we understand.”

  ***

  Callaway walked back to the Impala.

  “How’d it go?” Jimmy asked.

  “They had no choice.”

  Jimmy smiled. “That’s what I’m talking about. This calls for a drink.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  Callaway started the engine.

  They had driven around the block when Jimmy said, “Hold up.”

  Callaway braked. “What’s going on?”

  “I just remembered I gotta do something first,” Jimmy replied. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll meet you later at the bar.”

  Callaway frowned. “Are you sure? I’ll drive you if you want.”

  “Listen, kid,” Jimmy said, getting out of the Impala, “I don’t need a chaperone, okay?”

  Callaway watched as he disappeared from view.

  Callaway sighed and drove off.

  FORTY-ONE

  Fisher was in a brightly lit room inside the Milton Forensic Center. The room was painted white from top to bottom. The lights bounced off the white walls. She had to blink a few times to let her eyes adjust.

  Two tables were in the middle of the room. On top of each were dummy heads made from synthetic latex material. Red liquid was splattered all around the heads.

  Wakefield stood between the tables. She had on a white lab coat, which was now stained with red. She was also wearing glov
es and protective goggles.

  “Thank you for coming, Detective Fisher,” Wakefield said. “The victim, Dillon Scott, showed signs of blunt force trauma, likely caused by a heavy object. With your help, we concluded it may have been inflicted using the bookend in the house. This led me to conduct several tests in order to recreate what may have happened. The angle of Mr. Scott’s wound is in the middle of the head.” She pointed to the dummy head on her right. “Mr. Scott is five feet, ten inches in height.” She pressed a button on the side of the table, and the platform rose to the required height. She then held up what looked like a hammer. “I am around five feet, three inches, and when I swung the hammer down onto this head, the splatter of the blood on the wall does not match the trajectory of the blood found at the crime scene.”

  Fisher squinted, confused. “There was hardly any blood.”

  “Exactly!” Wakefield agreed. “I then conducted a detailed examination of Mr. Scott’s wound. The angle and the depth of the wound makes me conclude that the attacker was not my height.” She pointed to the dummy head on her left. “I raised myself up on a stool, which elevated me up to a height of over six feet. I then conducted the same experiment. Again, the blood splatter was not useful in this test, but the angle and the depth of the wound was a match.” She turned to Fisher. “I am confident Mr. Scott’s attacker was taller than him.”

  Fisher mulled this over. “So, we are looking for a man over six feet in height?”

  Wakefield frowned. “I’m not certain.”

  “But you just said the wound matched up when you elevated yourself.”

  “It does, but the wound is not deep enough to have caused Mr. Scott’s demise.”

  Fisher blinked. “So it’s not death by blunt force trauma?”

  Wakefield shook her head. “The wound is superficial. The force of the impact did not penetrate or crack the cranium. There was no damage whatsoever to the brain or any vital nerves.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am now leaning toward the conclusion that the head wound only rendered Mr. Scott unconscious, but it was not the cause of his death.”