Sand City Murders

by MK Alexander

  “You’re wasting my time, Jardel.”

  I ignored him and reached into my satchel again. I handed Durbin a copy of Lorraine Luis’ birth certificate. It had a big toe print in the corner.

  “So who is this?” Durbin asked, now somewhere between annoyed and perplexed.

  “You can read…” I replied and maybe a bit too sarcastically. “Match this toe print to the victim.”

  “We already ID’ed her.”

  I pointed to the whiteboard. “No, she’s Jane Doe number three, Sunset Park… placed on her mom’s memorial bench.”

  “The corpsicle?”

  I nodded.

  “So you’re trying to tell me she was fucking frozen for thirty-six years and then dumped at Sunset?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything. You have to make your own mind up.” Then I handed Durbin the birth certificate for Elaine Luis. “This is her sister… not Lorraine, on the sculpture… match her toe print too.”

  “Sister? How come one is twenty something, and the other is fifty something?”

  “Not a question I can answer.”

  “Okay, say it wasn’t Lorraine at Spooky Park; this still doesn’t help your buddy Inspector Fynn much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It might mean he killed the wrong girl in nineteen seventy-seven and he came back for her sister.”

  “C’mon, Durbin...”

  “He still doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “Okay, alibis… fair enough. First there’s this….” I fished through my bag and pulled out a statement from Oscar Fuentes the cab driver. “You put Fynn at Sunset Park that morning, right?”

  Durbin nodded.

  “This says otherwise. I talked to Oscar. He says he dropped Fynn off at Partners the night before. You can ask him yourself. The receipt you have was very misleading.”

  “Okay, so I give you that one— what about the others?”

  “I’ll admit, I’ve got nothing for Doc Samuels and the girls.”

  “So you’re saying Fynn is good for those?”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all. It’s still this Mortimer guy.” I felt a little frustrated but I was well prepared. “I just don’t see Fynn doing anything like this. And why did he insist that Samuels was murdered? All he had to do was agree with you and call it an accident.”

  “How about Lucinda? Where’s Fynn’s alibi for that?”

  A smile came to my face. “Here, look at these…” I handed Durbin more evidence.

  “What’s this?”

  “His alibi for Lucinda… it was in his hotel room.”

  “How did you get this?”

  “I took a picture with my cellphone when you weren’t looking.”

  “Figures… so... what is it?”

  “A receipt from an antiques dealer in Pennsylvania. Fynn sold him a rare coin. I called him up, I emailed him a picture of Fynn and he verified the sale. You can double check.”

  “And this... a bus receipt?”

  “Yup. Doylestown, PA. Check the date.”

  “It could be anybody’s.”

  “It could be, but it’s not. If you get a court order, you can pull a video from the depot. I guarantee you’ll find a picture of Fynn boarding the bus or sitting in the waiting room.”

  Durbin gave me an exasperated look.

  “Either one of these alone gives him an air-tight alibi…”

  “Jesus F. Christ.” Durbin looked totally stumped. “I’m not sure what to say. This is not making a whole lot of sense to me… How the fuck do you know all this, anyhow?”

  I smiled.

  “What about Jane Doe number two? Debra Helling— you’re calling her up on the board.” He nodded.

  “I think you should test her for freezer burn.”

  “What?” Durbin asked and then consider further. “Hmm, can’t do that though.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s already a freaking corpsicle, sitting in the county morgue for the last two months.”

  I dropped a copy of the Chronicle onto Durbin’s desk. It was open to page six.

  “What’s this?” he asked and looked up at me, trying to gauge my intent.

  “Police Blotter, April twelfth.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Third item down.”

  Durbin read aloud, “A possible breaking and entering was reported by Officer Adams, 2:45 am, on the morning of Sunday, April 7th, Building 17, Canal Street, Long Neck Marina. Bolt cutters and a crowbar were found at the scene. A suspect was also observed. Adams reports an unidentified male wearing a black hoody sweatshirt fled the area but was not apprehended.” Durbin looked up at me again. “So?”

  “You remember this?”

  “Yeah, sort of… but, what’s it got to do with anything?”

  “I know what’s inside that garage.”

  “Let me guess, a car… So?”

  “What if I could prove this car belonged to Jane Doe number two?”

  Durbin gave me a look. “Well… I dunno, guess that would be a relevant clue.”

  I laughed, reached into my pocket and held up a rabbit’s foot with two keys dangling on the end.

  “And this is?”

  “The key to a Pontiac, registered to Debra Helling, Jane Doe number two.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I can show you the car and her registration, and her fingerprints will be all over it. Wanna check it out?”

  “Who else’s prints would I find on this car?”

  “What?”

  “Whose prints am I going to find?”

  “Um… mine I guess.”

  “This I can check.”

  “You don’t have my fingerprints,” I said defensively.

  “Ha, you don’t remember, do you?”

  “Remember what?”

  “About three years ago, we did that free identification program for the Village. You did a story on it, and you volunteered your fingerprints back then.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes you did.”

  I vaguely recalled what Durbin was saying and eventually came to believe he was correct, especially when he handed the file to me.

  “And you have no alibi for most of these murders.”

  “Wait, I’m a suspect now?”

  “I’m just saying, Patrick….You know at least five of the victims.”

  “Who?”

  “Doc Samuels, Alyson, Emma, and Lorraine Luis, Lucinda…”

  “C’mon Durbin… First of all, everyone knew Doc Samuels. That’s not going to fly. Okay, I dated Alyson, we were friends— why would I want to hurt her? Emma, I barely knew… I think Joey was sweet on her… And Lorraine Luis, aka Elaine Luis, well, I told you I was doing a story on that sculpture…” I paused. “You checked my alibi for Lucinda— the laptop?”

  “Right...” Durbin gave me a half smile at least. “And I can tell you that your fingerprints were not found in Fynn’s hotel room.”

  “What?”

  “That’s a good thing, Jardel.” Durbin grinned slightly. “I made you wear gloves, remember?”

  “What about my car?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s in the back lot. Didn’t you see it?”

  “No. And…?”

  “Your Saab is free and clear, no trace evidence.”

  “No bodies in the trunk?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “To the garage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who owns this garage?”

  “Um… Fynn actually.”

  “Really now...” Durbin made a face. “Alright, let’s go.”

  ***

  It was a Charger not a Saab that took us there. Lights and sirens and a road that cleared out like a parting sea. Otherwise it might have taken an hour to get across Sand City on this particular weekend. Durbin pulled up along Building 17 near the Marina. I had a deep pit in my stomach and imagined opening the garage door to find nothing at all bu
t an empty space and a few oily rags. It was certainly possible that Mortimer or his accomplice got here first. I was somewhat relieved to find the padlock still in place. Durbin helped me haul up the door and sure enough there was a vehicle parked under a faded tarp.

  “So, what do we got here?” Durbin asked with curiosity and started to lift the cover, “A Le Mans, a Tempest?”

  “A T-37.”

  “There you go,” Durbin said in agreement and stared at the pumpkin orange muscle car. “Nice…” he said with a certain admiration then gave me a look. “Huh, just had a weird deja vu…”

  “You’re learning, Durbin…”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jardel?”

  “Never mind.” I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

  Durbin put on his gloves, opened the door and took a quick look around the front. He removed the registration papers, and the pink pocketbook from the seat. On his way back out, he poked the hideous troll hanging from the rearview and gave me a squinty grin. “What am I looking at here, Jardel?”

  “I’m not saying a word. You make up your own mind— okay?”

  He gave me the evil eye, then examined the documents in the light of day. First he looked at the crumbling, faded registration card. It was barely readable and meant little to him. Then he pulled Debra’s driver’s license from the handbag. “Huh, a California license… expires nineteen seventy-eight… and with a picture…” he muttered and compared it to his own photo of Jane Doe number two. “Holy crap,” was his only comment for now. He seemed to be at a complete loss. “What the fuck, Jardel?”

  I just shrugged.

  “Jesus, I gotta think about this now…” Durbin pinched his brow. “Okay… I’ll get forensics in, check for prints and run a trace on the VIN.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no?”

  “I want to see who else is hot for this car. I want to see who’s going to steal it.” I paused. “They already tried once— remember?’

  Durbin eyed me again and slowly seemed to understand what I meant. “The only way this car is going anywhere is on a flatbed.”

  “What?”

  “Dead battery probably, four bad tires, no plates… shit, the thing probably doesn’t even run on unleaded.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A V-8, pre-catalytic converter.”

  “No, I meant the flatbed.”

  “This car probably hasn’t run in thirty years, I’d say. Nobody could steal it even if they wanted to.”

  “How about I sell it?”

  “Sell it? It’s not even yours.”

  “I own the keys…” I replied. “Really want to see who might be interested in buying it— that’s all.”

  Durbin paused to consider. “Okay, I see where you’re going with this, Patrick.”

  “How about a stake out?”

  “Ha,” Durbin chuckled slightly.

  “How about I take it over to Matt’s and get it fixed up? Make it all premo. I can put a classified ad in the Chronicle. Then see who wants to buy it.”

  “What, Matt’s Motors? Wait, not before I do a work up on this car... Let’s think about this for a second,” Durbin said slowly. “If somebody is interested, we don’t want to hand it over on a silver platter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell you what, I got some friends at the DMV. I’ll get you tags… you get it towed over to Matt’s, but tell him to fix it up just enough to pass inspection. And then I’ll take it from there…”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’ll get forensics in here tonight… You call Matt tomorrow and run your ad. Make it like an auction… say, next Saturday, ten to noon.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here.”

  “And?”

  “And they’ll come to us.” Durbin laughed and gave me a grin.

  ***

  “Eleanor, I was wondering if I could take out a classified ad?”

  “A free one, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, Patrick. Just give it to Miriam… Free or not, any column inches we add to the classifieds can only benefit the Chronicle.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Buying or selling, if I might ask?”

  “Selling… a car.”

  “Your Saab?” Eleanor looked at me over her glasses.

  “No… my other car.”

  “I didn’t know you had two.”

  “It’s been in storage.”

  For Sale

  Vintage 1974 Pontiac T-37. Pumpkin orange, low mileage, needs some TLC. Best offer at one day auction, no reserve. Viewing Saturday, May 25, 10 a.m. to noon. Building 17, Canal Street, Long Neck Marina.

  I texted Durbin the details and he replied, Perfect. Will put the bag back— makes good bait.

  chapter 34

  deadline diner

  Eleanor called us in early for the final editorial meeting, the final push for the Summer Preview issue.

  “What do you have, Joey?” she asked.

  “Bike Patrol Profile… six new officers. I’m having a little trouble following up with Detective Durbin.”

  “Well, I imagine he is busy with other things,” Eleanor said dryly.

  “Are they using those whatchamacallits this year?”

  “You mean segways?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, back to regular bikes.”

  “No ATV’s, correct?”

  “The cops, you mean?”

  “Yes, the police.”

  “No, just a bicycle patrol.”

  “What about skateboards, roller blades and such?”

  “Not permitted this year.”

  Eleanor turned to me. “Patrick, what’s left on your plate?”

  “The Lighthouse feature… we haven’t run it in years… just have to update it a little. Got the Middle Cove erosion story, bad side of the jetty. I’m waiting on Clifford from the USGS to get back to me with a couple of quotes. Let’s see… there’s the photo montage of the Marina, the fishing boats. I did the club updates, Night Life Guide, and I have a humorous feature about former names.”

  “Former names?”

  “Well, I have to check with Kevin for verification, but yeah, all those clubs have been there for ages and they’ve all had strange names over the years…”

  “Okay... And Evan?”

  We all looked around the room. He was no where to be seen. And he should have been. The Baxter Estates expansion was still embroiled in controversy. They had to file no less than seven zoning variances already. It wasn’t exactly what we wanted for the Summer Issue but it was still news, hard news.

  “How many pages did we run last year?” I asked.

  “A hundred and twenty eight. I think it was a record.”

  “Wow. Sounds like a book to me.” I commented. “Can we do that many this year?”

  “Depends on Mel and Lu.”

  “Lu?”

  “No, not Lucinda,” Eleanor said in almost a whisper. She lit a cigarette. “Alright, we have to choose a photo for the front page now. What are our options?”

  “Joey took some great shots of North Hollow… long lonely beach sort of thing.”

  “Hmm, not quite right for this year.”

  “Also have some pretty dramatic pictures of the sunken Liberty Ships, up at Bayview.”

  “Again, lovely as they are, not quite appropriate.”

  “Well, it’s got to be Frank’s telephoto shot of a sailboat on Serenity Bay…”

  Eleanor studied the photo with her glasses and without. Frank Gannon had snapped a great picture of a skiff at full sail, keel half way out of the choppy water... the crew at the ready, and the sun sinking into a shimmering haze beyond.

  “This wins hands down,” Eleanor said.

  “That’s a superb photo, Frank, really,” I called across the room.

  He turned to me and smiled but otherwise oblivious.

  “What did we use last year?�
�� I asked.

  “Beach shot with umbrellas,” Eleanor recalled. She glanced at me over her glasses and gave me her look. “Patrick, who are you texting on your cell phone so incessantly.”

  “Oh sorry, it’s Detective Durbin.”

  “I see… Have they formally charged this Fynn character yet?”

  ***

  About an hour later Durbin called me to the station. He insisted on meeting personally. I found him as usual in Arantez’s office sitting behind the desk.

  “Patrick, have a seat.”

  “What’s up?”

  “That’s exactly why you’re here. You are going to tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Durbin stared at me hard. I didn’t like the expression on his face. He picked up a pile of green folders and started sifting through them. “Okay, I did everything you asked me to, and now you are going to explain what the fuck is going on.”

  “I’m not getting this, Durbin.”

  “Not getting this, huh?” He picked up the first folder and opened it. “Jane Doe number one, the person you are calling Clara Hobbs... Reported missing September, nineteen seventy-five, North Hollow Beach.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Positive ID, birth certificate match, dental records: Clara Hobbs— that’s thirty-eight years gone by…”

  “Corpsicle?”

  “How the fuck did you know this?”

  “Roxy.”

  “Roxy, huh?” Durbin picked up a second green folder and opened it. “Sunset Park, victim number three. Toe print matches her birth certificate, ninety-nine percent probable to Lorraine Luis.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, that’s who we identified laying on the goddamn egg sculpture.”

  “Okay.”

  Durbin picked up another folder. “Victim number four… Spooky Park: birth certificate match to Elaine Luis, sister to the aforementioned Lorraine.”

  “Bingo.”

  “What the fuck is going on, Patrick?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me.”

  “No, I would tell you… If I could, if I could explain it.”

  “Then Fynn must know.”

  “He might,” I said. “You’ll have to let him go now.”

  “What the fuck? Why would I do that?”

  “He has an alibi, right?”

  “What alibi?”