Night Tremors

by Matt Coyle

  “Did you testify at the trial?”

  “No. The judge ruled the incident inadmissible, but the DA didn’t need it anyway. The jury got it right. Read the report, Bullet. Then take a real vacation. You deserve one.”

  I left LJI convinced my vacation wouldn’t involve helping get a convicted killer a new trial.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Midnight greeted me at the front door. I gave him a Milk-Bone and let him outside. I watched him through the sliding glass door. He cantered around the backyard sniffing the ground, the air, the bushes. He knew how to enjoy the little things in life. I should have taken notes.

  I went upstairs to my office and put the police report on my desk. A photograph on the corner of the desk caught my eye. It often did. The photo was of Colleen and me on the Rubicon Trail above Lake Tahoe. I’d set my camera on a tripod and we’d taken a selfie years before they became ubiquitous via smartphones. The lake glistened behind us, the translucent blue matched in Colleen’s eyes. Her smile, open, inviting, joyful.

  Some days, the picture made me happy. Some days, sad. Today, sad. The light in Colleen’s eyes that would never shine again. The horrific photos in the police file on my desk. Sad reminders that death takes us all. And that evil is ever ready to slaughter innocent life to satisfy its desires.

  I opened the file and read about evil unleashed.

  The report began with a call to 911 from a neighbor, Ruth Costa, who had heard the Eddingtons’ dog howling for over half an hour and went to investigate at 12:15 a.m. The neighbor often dog sat when the Eddingtons were away, so she had a key. After knocking on the door and ringing the doorbell, she used her key to enter the house, and found the dog with blood on its paws. There were bloody paw prints in the foyer and the living room, which was as much as she could see. She checked the dog’s paws and couldn’t find a cut. She then called out to Alana and Thomas Eddington and got no response. She called 911. Two uniforms arrived ten minutes later and discovered the bodies as shown in the gruesome photos I’d looked at.

  Detective Hailey West was the first detective to arrive and managed the crime scene until Detective Moretti arrived at 12:35 a.m. The FSU—Field Services Unit—arrived at 12:40 a.m. and photographed the crime scene and the bodies in situ.

  The coroner arrived at 12:50 a.m. and rolled the bodies, then took their liver temperatures. The coroner determined the times of death to be between 10:00 p.m. and 12:00 a.m.

  Moretti’s partner, Detective Dan Coyote, arrived at 12:55 a.m. Dan had been a sometime golf buddy before I got tangled up in an LJPD murder investigation two years ago. He quit the force after LJPD put a happy face on the fiasco. Moretti went on to become chief of police. Dan and I hadn’t talked since.

  Moretti had Coyote question the neighbor, Ruth Costa, and other people in the neighborhood. Moretti acquired telephonic search warrants to search the house, cars, and front and back yards. The neighbor gave Coyote the names of the Eddington family members, and at that time the detectives discovered that Randall was the only one missing.

  The coroner released the scene at 1:40 a.m. and transported the bodies to the coroner’s office.

  The forensic specialists from FSU collected and cataloged DNA and fingerprint evidence.

  Moretti searched the inside of the house. No murder weapon was found. However, the master bedroom had been staged to look like a burglary had taken place. Clothes were strewn about and all the drawers of the dressers had been pulled open. The dressers were the key to the staging. No one starts from the bottom drawer to search a dresser. You search the top drawer first, then close it and start on the next one down. The second drawer can’t be searched if the top drawer is open. The only drawer that would be left open is the bottom one.

  Bleach residue was found in the drain of the shower in the master bath. This suggested that the killer took a shower to wash off blood and then dumped bleach down the drain to destroy possible DNA evidence.

  Detective West searched the two Eddington cars in the garage, the garage itself, and the front and back yards with the help of a uniformed patrolman. She didn’t find the murder weapon or any incriminating evidence. However, she discovered that the sand wedge was missing from Thomas Eddington’s golf bag in the trunk of his car.

  Although the murder weapon was never found, the medical examiner later determined that the wounds to the victims were consistent with those made by a sand wedge.

  Randall Eddington arrived at the crime scene at 2:00 a.m. He became agitated when he was prevented from entering the house by uniformed patrolmen. Detectives Coyote and West helped calm him down and suggested they get away from the house and go to the police station where they could talk. They drove Randall to the police station at 2:15 a.m.

  Coyote questioned Randall about his whereabouts for the night. Randall said he had dinner with his family around 7:00 p.m., watched some TV, and then went alone to see the 10:00 p.m. showing of Spider-Man 3 at the La Jolla Village Cinemas. He produced an electronic ticket stub time-stamped as being purchased at 9:41 p.m. Randall said he stayed for the whole movie, getting popcorn and a soda about half way through, and left the theater around 12:30 a.m. He then went to a party at La Jolla Shores until around 1:45 a.m., then went home. Randall was not charged and was picked up by his grandparents at 4:15 a.m.

  Detective Moretti attained a telephonic search warrant for Randall’s car, which Randall had driven to the scene at 2:00 a.m. and left there when he went with Detectives West and Coyote to the police station at 2:15 a.m. Detective West, who had returned to the crime scene from the police station, searched the car and discovered a sock that had what appeared to be blood on it. The sock was later tested, and blood from both Thomas and Alana Eddington was found on it along with Randall’s DNA.

  Later that morning, Coyote checked with the crew that worked at the movie theater the night before and showed them a photo of Randall. The girl working refreshments remembered Randall from the picture and verified his story that he’d bought a Coke and popcorn sometime around 11:00 p.m.

  However, Coyote learned that the Spider-Man 3 projector had malfunctioned at 11:15 p.m., and the showing was delayed about fifteen minutes until the projector was fixed. The movie ended about 12:45 a.m., fifteen minutes later than when Randall said it had.

  Coyote went over to Randall’s grandparents’ house and again asked Randall what time he left the theater. He, again, said 12:30 a.m. Coyote then asked him if anything unusual happened during the movie and Randall said “no.”

  Moretti and Coyote arrested Randall six weeks later when the lab results came back for the blood on the sock found in his car.

  The trial only took a month, the jury, a day. Guilty. I couldn’t find anything in the report that made me question the verdict. Of course, the police report was only one side of the story. The jury had heard both sides and made their decision.

  Now, I’d made mine.

  I’d eaten an entire plate of Rita Mae Eddington’s chocolate chip cookies on false pretenses. I couldn’t try to free her grandson from prison when I thought he was a murderer. New third party confession or not.

  I pulled out my phone to call Buckley and give him the bad news. Then I’d remembered I’d promised to talk to the witness before I decided whether or not to take the case. I doubted the wit could change my mind, but it was the least I could do for Rita Mae Eddington after eating all those cookies.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Midnight barked from the backyard. Someone hard-knocked my front door. I went to the door and checked the peephole. I saw the top of a woman’s head and opened the door.

  “Rick Cahill?” Her voice sounded like pocket change rattling around in a clothes dryer. Loud. Jarring. Unexpected.

  She couldn’t have been taller than five feet or weighed more than ninety pounds. Brown eyes the size of coasters took up most of her face. Lips took up the rest. Auburn hair in a bob cut. Late thirties, early forties, but wearing it easy. Everything fit together. Not pretty, but attractive. She
wore jeans and a gray sweater.

  “Yes.” I expected her to shove a piece of paper at me and tell me I’d been served.

  “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

  Not the first time I’d been asked that question. But never upon meeting someone for the first time.

  “If I knew who you were, I might have an answer for you.”

  “You cost me a job!”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” I’d dealt with crazy before. Sometimes I played along. Sometimes I called it out. Either way, I’d yet to come home and find Glenn Close waiting for me with a knife in my bathtub, so my reads had been good so far. I needed braille to read this one.

  “The Cowboy Lawyer hired me and then fired me because you wanted to play Hamlet.”

  Oh. Not crazy. Just pissed off. And rightly so.

  “Buckley didn’t tell me he’d already hired someone else. Sorry.”

  “I passed on another job to take the Eddington case.” Her Betty Boop eyes narrowed in accusation. “Now, I don’t have either.”

  “You may be in luck. I’m still playing Hamlet.” I opened the door wide. “You want to come in or just yell at me on my porch?”

  She tilted her head and half-eyed me, then walked into the house.

  “You want a beer?”

  “I guess I could have a beer since I don’t have a job anymore.”

  This was going well.

  I grabbed two Ballast Point IPAs from the fridge. Maybe alcohol would help defuse the burning stick of dynamite standing in front of me.

  “You got a name?” I handed the woman a beer.

  “Moira MacFarlane.” She didn’t stick out a hand or give me a smile. I swept a hand to the sofa in the living room. She sat down. She had to point the toes of her boots down to reach the floor. “You said something about Hamlet and me being in luck.”

  “I think I’m opting for ‘not to be.’”

  “You really are Hamlet. First you say ‘no,’ then you say ‘yes,’ now you say ‘no.’ ” Moira smiled for the first time and shook her head. “You’re worse than a woman.”

  “You read the police report?”

  “No.”

  “The kid did it.”

  “Of course he did.” She flattened a smile and shrugged her shoulders. “You’re opting out because the client’s guilty?”

  “I draw the line at murder.”

  “If I pulled down six figures at La Jolla Investigations, I might draw the same line. But I can’t afford to be so picky.” She took a swig of beer and looked at me without blinking for so long that I thought we were playing a game of blink. Finally, “A lot of people in this town think you draw the line right after murder.”

  “Is that what you think?” A harder edge in my voice than I expected. “That I murdered my wife?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “You’re right.” I stood up. “It doesn’t.”

  “But I don’t think you did.” Moira remained seated.

  “Either way, now we’re even.” I remained standing.

  “No.” She set her beer down on the coffee table and finally stood up. “That was inappropriate. I let the job thing get the better of me. That wasn’t fair. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Her Kewpie Doll face dropped and she headed for the front door.

  “You insult me and then leave behind a half-empty beer?”

  She turned around.

  “Sit down and finish your beer, and I’ll see if I can get you back your job.”

  Moira went back to the couch and sat down. “I’m all ears.”

  More like all eyes.

  “I owe Buckley and the family an interview with a witness. Anything short of a video showing someone else murdering the Eddington family, I’m off the case.”

  “Funny you should mention a video.”

  “Why?”

  “The Eddington clan is an interesting group.” She hit her beer and leaned toward me. “I’m going to tell you a little story because you’re not the asshole I thought you were.”

  “I’m a different kind of asshole.”

  “Exactly.”

  She held up her beer bottle and waved it. I went to the fridge and got her another. A hint of pink had slid under her olive skin. She seemed a bit buzzed. Maybe that’s all it took when you weighed ninety pounds.

  I sat down on the recliner. “Give me your story.”

  “About six months before he died, Thomas Eddington hired me to tail his father for about a week.”

  “Jack?” She had me. “Why?”

  “Thomas didn’t tell me. The gig was to just follow the old man and report back daily.” She took a swig of beer and smiled at me. A nice smile. “Turns out Jack liked the ponies. Every day after he left the Eddington Golf warehouse in Carlsbad, he’d drive south to the racetrack in Del Mar.”

  “How did he do?”

  “Never saw him leave the track happy.” Another swig. Another smile. “One day, I’m following the old man after he leaves the warehouse, and he goes north on I-5 instead of south to the racetrack or his home in La Jolla. I tail him all the way up to a golf store in LA’s Koreatown. He parks around back and starts unloading long thin boxes from his SUV to a Korean guy.”

  “I’m guessing Jack Eddington didn’t drive ninety miles to LA to make a delivery for Eddington Golf.”

  “Guessed right. The Korean guy didn’t even put the clubs in the store. He put them in his own SUV. Then he handed Jack a thick envelope. Got it all on video.”

  “Cash for clubs, then onto the black market. How did Thomas take the news?”

  “I showed him the video and his expression never changed. Wrote me the biggest check I’d ever earned and showed me the door. A month later, I saw a story in the paper that Jack Eddington had retired as CEO of Eddington Golf and that Thomas had taken over. Five months later, Thomas and his wife and daughter were dead.”

  “Did you tell LJPD after the family was murdered?”

  “Yeah, but they had their narrative and evidence.” Another gulp of beer. A goofy smile. “Anyway, the kid did it.”

  “You tell all of this to Buckley?”

  “Hell no! Jack Eddington is bankrolling the investigation.” A burp, then a giggle.

  This put a new spin on the ball, but not enough for me to jump on the “Free Randall” bandwagon. Maybe Trey Fellows could give me another nudge.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Trey Fellows lived in Pacific Beach. PB, La Jolla’s slacker little brother to the south, was a sandy strip of beach dotted with dive bars and panhandlers. Everybody was laid-back until after midnight or the sixth beer. The bums sometimes carried eight-inch butcher knives under their Goodwill camo jackets.

  Fellows lived in a cottage behind a house two streets south of Garnet, the main drag. A beach cruiser bicycle was chained to a fence on the left side of the front patio. I hadn’t called for an appointment. I wanted to get Fellows’ story unrehearsed. It was ten a.m. on a Sunday, but the heavy skunk smell of marijuana smoke seeped through the doorframe.

  I knocked on the door and it opened in a puff of smoke. A tall, wiry man appeared when the haze cleared. He wore faded board shorts, flip-flops, and nothing else except a smattering of tattoos on his chest and shoulders. Red rings around blue eyes on a long face. A tangle of mud-blond dreadlocks fell down past his shoulders. Fine, if you’re a musician in a reggae band or a third-year philosophy student. Not so much if you’re a thirty-eight-year-old white dude. But, hey, this was PB. Maybe I was the one who looked out of place.

  “This is medical, bro.” He held a two-foot-long glass bong in his hand with a wisp of smoke still trailing out its mouth. His words came out in the lazy cadence of a SoCal surf dude. “I got a doctor’s prescription I can show you.”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Close.” I handed him my La Jolla Investigations card with my cell number scribbled on it. My paper badge. “I’m
a private investigator working for the Eddington family. May I come in?”

  The glaze burned out of his eyes and he blinked a couple times. Then his eyes rolled up and I worried that he might be having a seizure, but decided he was just thinking. Finally, he swung the door open.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  The cottage was a fifteen-by-fifteen square-foot room. Tiny kitchen with dishes overflowing the sink. Surfboard in the far corner opposite an unmade bed. Bathroom door next to a hall closet in a home without a hall. Hardwood floor under discarded clothes. Coffee table with a baggie of weed, a lighter, and some surfing magazines. A lone picture of a suntanned couple in their thirties hung on the wall. The musk of marijuana bud and smoke hung in the air like Elizabethan curtains.

  Fellows grabbed a wet suit off a frayed green loveseat and tossed it onto the bed. I sat down, and he did the same onto a duct-taped leather recliner that didn’t match the loveseat. He pinched a tiny bit of weed from a large bud in the baggie, stuffed it into the bong’s glass bowl, brought the open end to his mouth, and lit the marijuana with a Bic lighter. The water in the bong gurgled and smoke filled the cylinder until Fellows pulled off the bowl and vacuumed up the smoke. He held his breath as long as he could before a cough spat smoke out of his mouth.

  “You know, that stuff can hurt your memory.”

  Not to mention your ambition and IQ. I spoke from experience. After my wife was murdered and I quit the force in Santa Barbara, I tried anything I could get my hands on to help me forget. The ambition went, but the memories stayed.

  “I got a bad back, bro. Helps the pain.” He set the bong down onto the coffee table and averted his bloodshot eyes.

  If this was the magic witness the Eddingtons hoped could free their grandson from prison, their dream was burning up in a puff of marijuana smoke, and my vacation started tomorrow.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Fellows?” Brain surgery was out, but I hoped that he at least had a job.

  “I’ve been on disability for six months.”