by Jo Robertson
“He didn’t mean anything by taking it. He was just worried about his friend.”
Cruz held up a hand. “I know. He won’t get into any serious trouble. No one figures a person like Sergei was involved in Dickey’s murder.”
“It’s definitely murder?”
“I’m sorry. Dickey was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was standing outside the office door, and lowered his voice. “What do you think, Angie? Did Dickey have any enemies? Someone have a grudge against him?”
“Nah, nothing like that. He was just a harmless old bum.” Her eyes misted at the memory.
“Did he owe any money? Steal someone’s stash?”
Fire danced in her expression, giving her face the life it lacked. “No, I told you. Dickey wasn’t like that. Everybody liked him. He got along with all types. Real low profile, you know?” She stared sharply at him. “At least you’d know if you kept up with your clients.”
Cruz flushed at the accusation, but lowered his voice further and rested his elbows on his knees. He was close enough to smell the faint tang of body odor covered by the scent of Angie’s cheap cologne. “What about the police? Did any particular officer hassle Dickey?”
Angie hesitated, worrying her bottom lip with a thumb and forefinger. “Well, you know, don’t none of the cops like these fellas, and the feeling’s mutual, but ... ” Her voice trailed off as her brow furrowed and she searched her memory.
“But what, Angie?” Cruz tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. No matter what Angie said about a grudge against the homeless by a police officer, he couldn’t let his mind travel that road. Jesus, they were all on the same side, weren’t they?
“Some of the cops – detectives, too – had a hard-on for my boys. Winston and Braun, Rawley, Flood – shit, even that sweet-faced gal cop, name of Summers – they was always rousting Dickey from the park.” She reached idly for her pack of cigarettes lying on the desk, remembered where she was, and pushed them away.
“Confiscating his cigarettes, hassling him ‘bout leaving trash lyin’ ‘round,” she continued, irritated without her nicotine rush.
She shook her head. “But they did that with all the street people. They really hate the homeless. It’s kinda scary, but, nah, they cops. Bluster and talk trash to us, but what somebody did to Dickey? That’s just plain sick.”
Cruz stood, wondering if he should’ve kept his mouth shut. It was a crazy notion anyway, and he didn’t want any rumors running around the street. “Let’s keep this between ourselves, okay, Angie? Dickey’s death was likely just a random snatch and grab gone wrong.”
“Yeah,” she replied with no conviction in her voice. “Yeah,” she repeated, “but what’d Dickey have worth snatching anyhow?”
In the afternoon Cruz visited Cole Hansen’s parents. The address was on file from several years ago and still current. The father was a stronger and more fit replica of his son, the mother red-eyed and weepy.
“We’ll have nothing to do with him,” the father exclaimed. “He’s been nothing but trouble from the day he was born. Rubbage and good riddance!”
They slammed the door in his face.
The older sister, his next stop, lived in an upscale condominium in Rocklin, and was more compassionate, teary-eyed and soft spoken. “Poor Cole, he never had a chance in this world.”
“Would he have reached out to you for help?” Cruz asked.
She sighed heavily. “I thought so, but I didn’t even know he’d been released from prison.”
“He hasn’t called or written?”
“Cole doesn’t write. He’s ashamed of his poor education, and no, he didn’t phone me.” She touched Cruz tentatively on the arm as he stood to leave. “Is he all right, do you think?”
Cruz wouldn’t tell her that if her brother didn’t report in soon, he could be right back in prison. Although the discharge records hadn’t been clear, Cruz had read between the lines and figured Cole had debriefed in prison. That’s why he’d gotten the unusually early release. If Cole was a snitch, he was in serious trouble, whether on the street or back inside.
It looked like Cole had figured that out, too, and was on the run. “I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you soon,” he soothed as he left.
Useless to tell her the truth, much kinder to give her hope.
Chapter 26
On his way back to Placer Hills and the parole office, Cruz got a call from Sheriff Slater. He put the cell on speaker phone. “What’s up, Slater?”
The Sheriff’s voice sounded worn and disgusted. “Another one. We got another fucking body.”
“Jesus Christ. Where? Not Ryder Park again?”
“No, just outside the county line at Battery Hill Park.”
“On Auburn Drive?”
“Yeah, just barely out of Bigler County. Not my jurisdiction, but I have a friend in Sac County. Hell, Chago, from what Clarence said, it sounds like it might be the same perp.”
Cruz didn’t hesitate. “I’ll meet you at the station in thirty.”
The air was chilly, with a hint of frost to come, when Cruz accompanied Slater to the crime scene site. Battery Hill Park was an old, tattered location next to a cemetery and a middle school.
Wondering briefly how that odd combination had happened, Cruz realized the park had been an afterthought, established long after the cemetery’s residents had turned to bone and bits of cloth. What short-sighted city council had then authorized a middle school right next to a graveyard?
The notion gave the crime scene an eerie, ghostly aura, but Cruz shook himself clear of such foolish thoughts as he met up with Slater. Sacramento PD had already cordoned off the area, and Slater hailed a man dressed in a rumpled suit and wearing, of all things, a worn fedora. A cigarette dangled between the fingers of his right hand.
“Clarence, Santiago Cruz. Clarence West is my very old friend from homicide division of SPD.”
“Not so very old,” growled West with a voice like a gravel truck dumping its load. He coughed harshly for a moment and held up his hand to ward off anticipated questions. After he recovered his breath, he said, “Soon as I got the call, I thought of your recent DB, Slater.”
The Sheriff shook his head. The park murder in Rosedale had gotten lots of press.
West stepped gingerly over the crime scene tape and motioned Cruz and Slater to follow. “CSU’s already finished here and our coroner will release the body in a few.” He nodded toward a heavy-set man in a white lab coat under a heavy parka.
Clarence West hunkered down over a body bag partially unzipped and tugged at the fastening, pulling it down to the woman’s knees. “No ID on her, no plastic bag or backpack to carry her stash. Zilch. She looks homeless, but no one around here could identify her.”
“A woman?” Slater said, registering surprise.
“That’s one difference between our victim and this one.” Cruz noted the ragged clothing, the torn sneakers wrapped with bands of cloth around the sole, the dirt-crusted fingernails. “But, yeah, she was a street person.”
The wounds looked remarkably like those found on Dickey Hinchey’s body, except the face wasn’t disfigured. Below the neck, however, the torso was a wild slash of mayhem – blood and gore extended from the stomach area, and intestines wriggled out from the body cavity like a nest of snakes.
Clarence stared up at Slater. “You think this could be the same doer as your vic?”
“Maybe. Both homeless. Both bodies savaged. Still ... ”
“Don’t see something like this very often,” Clarence muttered.
Slater lifted both shoulders, pursed his lips in thought, and glanced at Cruz.
“Well, we’ll see,” Clarence answered, rising creakily from thick haunches. “The medical examiner will provide more, I expect. Just wanted to give you a heads up in case the homicides are tied together.”
The two men shook hands. “Keep me informed,” Slater said as he and Cruz steppe
d back from the body.
“Ditto,” Clarence echoed, his attention already wandering.
The ride back to Placer Hills was long and silent, Slater and Cruz pondering the possibility of coincidence – or something much worse.
Based on the prison doctor’s concern, Cruz had to spend further time tracking down Cole Hansen. Since the parolee hadn’t gone to any logical or safe place, Cruz now worried that the guy was on the run.
Normally, he wouldn’t even think of the man until at least two weeks after he’d first reported in. Then he’d drop in on the ex-con and administer an unscheduled pee test. He’d either congratulate him or violate him. Sounded simple, but really wasn’t. Cruz had come to understand that nothing was ever that black and white in the world of corrections and rehabilitation.
Angie had said Cole hadn’t even stopped by Jesus Saves as Cruz had advised. Investigating last known addresses, phone numbers, and associates, he’d found nothing. A complete bust. No one had seen or heard from Cole Hansen since his release from prison.
And, now, to top it all off, when he tried the number on the prison doctor’s business card, it went straight to voice mail. He attempted to contact her in Crescent City, but prison authorities told him she was on an unspecified leave of absence.
What the hell?
A lot of coincidences were starting to pile up, and Cruz didn’t like that.
Chapter 27
Cruz knew from the tone of Slater’s voice that the news was bad. “Do I really want to know?” he joked as he held his office phone in one hand and a parolee file in the other. He relaxed back in his swivel chair, keeping his next appointment waiting.
“I sure as hell didn’t when my friend Clarence West called me,” Slater answered in a troubled voice. “Autopsy – or what passes for one in a case like this – is complete: no fiber, no prints, no DNA. Bullshit nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘what passes for one?’”
“They’re so understaffed and overworked in his county that when a case like this one comes in – a homeless person, no family, no contacts, obvious knife wounds and blunt force trauma, they’re not going to do more than a cursory exam and lab work.”
“Nothing internal?”
“No point. In their opinion it’s not an important illegal homicide. They’ll put two, almost-retired detectives on it, who’ll dick around for a few weeks, interview people. Nobody sees or knows anything.” Slater heaved out a heavy sigh and continued, “It’ll stay open, go cold in a month, and be forgotten in a year.”
“Shit,” Cruz said.
“Yeah, shit.” A long pause over the line. “Anything on your case?”
“Patch Wilson, our number one pathologist, is on vacation, somewhere in the Bahamas, and his replacement is ... well, let’s just say, he’s not as thorough as Patch.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”
“Mason Foster, but it’s Patch’s assistant, Howard Casey, who does most of the work. Dr. Foster doesn’t like to mess up his manicure.” Cruz’s voice was full of sarcasm.
“Well, no one could be as good as Patch, could he? Being as he’s the best in the business. Haven’t heard of this Foster guy, but Howard Casey – that name almost rings a bell.”
Cruz continued, “We’ve gotten everything we could from the substitute coroner – lab work’s back, no fingerprints or DNA except the vic’s, but we did find the backpack in a dumpster near Jesus Saves.”
Slater was familiar with Angie Hunt and the work she did at the shelter. “Anything in it?”
“No, but it belonged to Dickey. Angie ID’ed it and Detective Flood’s got it in evidence now.”
“No leads?”
“So far, RPD hasn’t kept me in the loop,”
“So what’s next?”
“Hell if I know.” Cruz spat out the words. “RPD has the same attitude toward the homeless that your friend’s county does.”
“There’s one thing left,” Slater said, disgust in his voice.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Wait for another murder and hope the crazy fucker gets careless.”
The parole office was dead quiet at this time of the day. Cruz fiddled with a pen on his desk blotter, reflected on the latest death. If it was the same killer, he was an arrogant bastard, didn’t seem to care how quickly his victims were found. The homeless woman was somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-five years old, scrawny, nearly toothless – and carved up much like his parolee Dickey Hinchey.
He shook off a wave of pity for her wasted life.
Determined to track down the doctor, Cruz reached one more time for his landline. The phone rang, a jarring sound that made him jerk back his hand.
The first words the woman on the other end of the line said were, “I need your help.”
Distracted, Cruz didn’t recognize the voice immediately, but sensed the urgency and fear in it. “Who is this?”
“Frankie Jones,” she replied shortly. “I asked you for information about Cole Hansen?”
Of course. The stormy gray eyes, the long dark hair, the medical doctor who looked nothing like a medical doctor. “Dr. Jones. Yes, I tried to catch you before you left my office yesterday.”
“You did?” She sounded dubious.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Things got real busy at the office.” Cruz thought again of the two dead street persons. “One of my parolees died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” A long, pregnant pause as if she were deciding whether to ask for his help after all.
I need your help, she’d said.
“Can we meet?” In spite of the concern in her voice, the words had the effect of a decisive command.
“I’m in Placer Hills now. How about a late lunch? There’s a diner on the corner of Highway 49 and Grant Street. Maybelle’s? You know it?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I grew up around here.”
“Great. See you there at three o’clock.”
His mind whirled with ideas. Why had he mentioned Dickey Hinchey’s death? How much should he tell Dr. Jones about Cole Hansen? Trying to track down Hansen was part of his job, so he might be able to help her.
Though definitely no longer his purview, finding out who’d murdered Dickey was more important to him. As far as RPD was concerned, he’d be sticking his nose in their business if he continued looking into the case.
Cruz checked his watch. He barely had time to wash up, put on the extra clean shirt he kept in the office, and make his lunch date. He didn’t question his need to look less rumpled when he saw the edgy Dr. Jones.
The woman had been stressed when he’d first seen her. Now she sounded almost frantic. He wondered what the directive, but worried Dr. Jones wanted now.
Chapter 28
At Folsom Prison, California state prison inmate number 143973 received notice that he had a visitor thirty minutes before visiting hours began. He washed up at the stainless steel sink, combed his dark hair – heavily threaded with gray, grown long now, and tied back in a queue – and changed his shirt.
A visitation for inmate 143973 was a rare thing and he went through the preparation with a mild sense of shock.
It had to be her. She was the only person who’d ever visited him during the fifteen years of his prison sentence for second-degree murder. She hadn’t come at first, or rather, wasn’t allowed to, but gradually she’d pushed the family rules or sneaked around, or whatever – he didn’t want to know – in order to visit him occasionally.
He hadn’t seen her in nearly a year.
In many ways doing time had been hard for him, learning the rules, who to trust, who not to turn your back on, but in other ways it’d been easy – no independent decisions. Everyone told you what to do and when to do it. Eat, sleep, take a crap – all normal activities were granted or withheld by correctional officers.
Inmates took on halting, indecisive behaviors, anticipation of direction. Without it they were like robots waiting to be animated, waiting for orders.
/> Doing time was tedious, but for an introverted, reflective person like inmate 143973, prison was a relief from the harried pace of everyday life in the outside world. He realized by the end of his second year of incarceration that no one would rescue him, that he’d serve out his sentence with basic needs provided for, and that he really wasn’t a man made for the uncertainty of life outside prison walls – for the profound betrayals that occurred there without warning.
Even in his years in the army, he’d done solitary work – ordnance at Ft. Lee, Virginia. Not much more of a job than a military secretary. And very isolated. Which he’d preferred.
He wasn’t a man who inherently knew how to interact with other people. Not any longer.
The guards released the cell doors and accompanied him and the other inmates in a straight line into the visitors section. Their guests waited on round stools on the other side of an elongated plexiglass wall that separated them from the prisoners.
Phones to the right were for communication. He entered his coded number and nodded to his guest to pick up the receiver on the other side of the window. He peered at the visitor through the glass barrier.
It wasn’t her after all. Unexpected disappointed squeezed his heart.
His court-appointed attorney sat on the other side. No contact with the man in at least five years and he barely remembered his name. He’d done a creditable, if unremarkable, job of defense, but – whoops, no cigar.
Inmate 143973 had been charged with murder two, a sentence of fifteen to life. However, when he’d come up for parole, the agitation surrounding the murder had prevented his paroling. It was beginning to look like he would do the full time.
He frowned uncomfortably. What was the lawyer’s name? Ah, John Wright, who worked for the county as a public defender. No pro bono, high-profile, hot shot attorney from Sacramento. Just some low-paid county worker.
Not that Wright hadn’t done the best job he could. It was just that twelve years ago, Wright was so new to law you could rub the shiny off him with a rag.