by Hugh Macnab
I need to add checking into Pamela Wilson’s bank records to my to-do list.
14
I start research on Pamela Wilson. First, is she who she’s supposed to be? I hadn’t thought to ask her father for a photograph of his daughter, so I start with checking her birth certificate, school records, then college year books. I can see the likeness in her photographs as far back as kindergarten. And the year books confirm it for me. She is definitely Pamela Wilson.
Checking through employment records shows that she has moved around a lot. First job was at Walmart, then in an insurance company, an eye-clinic, Costco and finally as a bank teller in Bank of America.
As I add to the list, I note that virtually every job she had was in administration or finance. I suppose once you start down that road, you build experience, so new prospective employers would want you for that.
Her employment seems to stop around five years ago. After that, there’s nothing. At least nothing in public records.
Criminal history confirms both Arnie Collins’ supposition and what her father told me. She’s been a user of Cocaine since her teens. There’re two reports of her as a user between fifteen and eighteen, but no charges filed. I guess we were cutting her some slack. From there on she had several convictions and was in and out of rehab. Nothing major though, and never a dealer. Just a user. This probably ties in with why she seems to move employment so regularly. Not a happy life.
Just being thorough, I check for marriage or divorce papers, but there are none. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had hidden a marriage from their parents. But not in this case.
I log into the DMV system again and check her driving convictions, but apparently she’s an excellent driver with no offenses.
Her passport is current, and Social Security and tax payments are up to date. Then I look into her property. She’s the sole owner, with no loan outstanding. Paid her utility bills by regular banker’s orders.
It’s when I start examining her bank records, things become interesting. There are all the regular outgoings you would expect, and I don’t pay them much attention. What I focus in on is one regular monthly income. This last few months it was for ten thousand dollars, deposited directly from an offshore account in her own name.
I immediately request details for the previous ten years and print everything out. After collecting them from the printer, and having armed myself with a fresh Folgers, I move into the conference room and spread the records out on the table.
I start checking the history of the incoming deposits. They started ten years before at five hundred dollars per month, and increased every now and again up to the ten-thousand level about three years ago. Since then, they have remained constant at that level. I grab a pad and pencil and start mapping them out, year by year. The income increases nine times over the ten-year period. Sometimes once a year, sometimes twice. This is Pamela Wilson’s retirement plan in action. I reckon I’ve found how she has managed to own her home, pay her utilities and taxes and provide her father with regular groceries.
At this point, I almost run back to my cubicle to print out the cell phone history that forensics have laid out for me.
Looking at the year of introduction for each model, I found a pattern year-by-year over eight years. 2..1..2..1..1..1..1..1.
When I look at the pattern of increases in Pamela’s income from her offshore account, it isn’t identical, but It’s close enough for me. Every time she adds a cell to her safe, her income from this offshore account goes up. So in the first year her income starts at five hundred and increases to a thousand before the year end. And if I’m right, these two contributors had recently purchased new models of cell phone. As I say, it isn’t an identical pattern match, but the general picture is that as newer cells become available, her income rises.
Then I notice that there are only nine increases and yet, ten cell phones. That puzzles me until I notice that her income doesn’t increase when the last cell phone was available - the most recent.
I’m now convinced she was using recordings on these cell phones to blackmail her clients. Apart from the final client who is the owner of the newest Galaxy S8 for some reason. Now, I really want to know what’s on them. I’ll figure the Galaxy S8 discrepancy out later.
Before I can give this any more thought, Jerry calls down from Narcs and tells me the briefing’s about to start, so I head upstairs, aware that senior management will see my involvement in this as unnecessary. But from a family perspective, it most definitely is. Besides, I feel I’m making steady progress with both homicides, and still feel in control.
We aren’t going in great numbers as we did the last time we raided this scrap metal yard. That time, we were taking down a major drugs deal. This time there will only be four of us and a patrol car. The aim is much simpler. To find an old green crushed Chevy and see if there’s a body inside. We’ll take a flatbed with us in anticipation.
Jerry shows us a picture of the owner who apparently works there every day. He’s the one to whom we will serve the search warrant. Then there’s a picture of the guy Joey told us is the killer we’re hoping to nail - Joaquin Montoya, or The Joker as we know him. Given the appearance of the guy, I have to award top marks to whoever came up with his nickname. This guy is about as far from a joke as possible. Nothing funny at all.
At upwards of two-fifty pounds, and six foot six, he’s a big guy. In the picture in front of us, he’s wearing his straggly hair to shoulder length and sporting an equally scraggy beard, long and unkempt, mostly brown but with flecks of gray. He’s decorated himself with tats on every available patch of skin, including his face.
According to the file Jerry produces, he’s thirty-eight, single, and the gang’s fixer. No known pastimes or interests - just fixing. He has served time twice, but not for anything major. Not yet. There’s no current address for him since he moved up from Miami a year ago. So we’re really hoping to catch him on site.
Jerry also shows a picture of my nemesis, Chico Vegas, but explains that it’s unlikely he’ll be there. I guess he’s not really into scrap metal.
Half an hour later, we roll through the gates of the scrap yard and climb out of our vehicles. The owner walks towards us. I can only see two other people. One is controlling the crusher. Old car in, metal cube out. I bet he enjoys his work. The other is driving, I guess what you could call a pick-and-place mechanical hoist. He’s collecting the crushed cubes and piling them neatly, presumably ready for collection and transport to some far-off place.
When I stop and look around, Jerry’s already handing the warrant to the owner who is looking it over. I decide to use the time to snoop around, so make for the office while the owner is occupied.
I’ve only reached the front door when I hear a noise and curse coming from round the rear somewhere. I draw my weapon, shout for an officer to follow, and run round the side of the building.
The Joker is trying to escape across an eight foot high wire fence. He has jumped on top of half a dozen wooden pallets and put his foot through one of them. I imagine that was the reason for the cursing I heard. By the time I’m fully round the building and twenty paces from him he has clambered up on a huge waste bin and is trying to swing his massive bulk over the fence.
I shout for him to stop, but know there’s no way he will, so I holster my gun and sprint towards him, rapidly closing the gap.
He already has most of his body mass over the fence, but has trapped one leg. The other trailed behind. When I’m almost there I can see his problem is that his enormous belly is hanging down both sides of the fence.
I jump up on the same pallets, being careful to keep to the edges, but just as he gets his first leg over. It will only be a matter of seconds before the other will follow. I do the only thing I can think of and jump as high as possible, snagging his belt with both hands, then hold on.
Momentum lost, again he becomes stuck. He pulls a knife from somewhere and starts jabbing it towards me through th
e links in the fence. I avoid the first few jabs, but know I need to do something different before eventually he gets to me. I throw my weight backwards and as I swing back towards the chain-link fence, put my feet out to form an arch with my body. Not only can he no longer reach me, but I’ve increased my leverage and his body is slowly reappearing over my side of the fence.
I think I’m doing fine until I look up and realize that all that’s happening is I’m getting a magnificent view of the crack of his butt as his pants slowly slide down to his mid-thigh.
Fortunately, by this time both of the patrol officers we brought with us have arrived and start helping pull him back over the fence.
All very well, but if we succeed, I stand a real good chance of being flattened.
Fortunately, the section of fence he’d been climbing collapses towards us, allowing me to jump clear and the two officers to secure and cuff our Joker. I almost laugh as his pants finally slide to the ground, but I was always taught never to laugh at a man’s privates. I don’t know, something to do with a fragile male ego or something.
He’s not a happy bunny.
I find the knife he had used and bag it for evidence. Even if we can’t nail him for the body in the Chevy, we can get him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. Although technically, we don’t yet have any evidence to charge him with, so the resisting arrest probably won’t stick.
As they bundle The Joker into the rear of one of the SUVs, I return to stand beside Jerry and watch the recovery operation take place. The owner says he recalls a car like the one we described, but doesn’t recall it being crushed. Once we explain when it happened, he then estimates where in the stack of cubes it should be, if it was there. He then directs the pick-and-place vehicle which starts digging into the pile one at a time.
I tell Jerry I need to leave him to it, but would like an update later.
I don’t want to squeeze in beside the Joker in the back of the patrol SUV, but two of Jerry’s guys who are also leaving, offer to take me back with them.
Half an hour later, I’m filling in the incident report form and drinking another Folgers. I stop by to update Dan, but again, he’s out on the road somewhere, so I send him a text update and head for home. It’s been a busy day.
Only then do I realize I don’t have a car. I try calling the garage again, but with the same result. I don’t want to beg the duty sergeant for another pool car, so I called a cab. On the journey home, I’m not thinking about The Joker, dead bodies, or cell phones. I’m wondering why my garage is closed. I’ll have to swing by again the following morning.
15
Six am and Alexa wakens me to a Motown mix, starting with the old Smokey Robinson number, Tracks of my tears. Tired from the exertions of the previous day, the melancholy guitar intro affects me. Then Smokey talking about how you can appear happy and yet be so sad inside, just tears me up. It’s months since my decision to terminate Bossy-boots, but the doubts still linger on. There’s no room in my life for single parenthood. I had to do what I did, but I can’t help but hear her argue her case in some far recess of my mind.
Never one for dwelling too long, I get up and notice my left knee doesn’t feel so good. As careful as I have been with my recovery, it still isn’t one hundred percent. I knew when I was chasing The Joker and jumped up onto the stack of pallets, my take-off wasn’t right, but in the heat of the moment, what could I do?
I massage it gently, rubbing some anti-inflammatory gel into the joint, then knock back a couple of painkillers. That will have to do. No run for me today, so I shower, dress and raid the fridge coming up empty. How many times do I have to remind myself to get food on the way home at night? Angry with myself, I’m going to have to spring for another breakfast at EJ’s. My tab must already be significant and I haven’t even been back a week.
I’ve dressed light, but also wear my wind-cheater. It will still be cool outside.
As I’m almost ready to head out, I notice the bones my papa had given me. They’re supposed to warn you of what lays ahead. It’s a while since I last used them. When honest with myself I’ve never believed what they are supposed to tell me anyway, but by not using them I’ve built up some guilt.
I’d sworn to my papa that I would use them. So, I open the small box, remove the four bones and cast them on the breakfast bar.
They tell me I’m going to see something new that day. Something useful.
I’m absolutely fine with that. At least it’s positive and upbeat. I repack them into their box and call a cab. It’s still too early in the morning to head to the garage, so I tell the driver to make for EJ’s instead.
This morning I settle for pancakes with syrup, two eggs over-easy on the side, and copious quantities of starter fluid - coffee. By the time I hit the office, I’m bouncing off the walls.
The duty sergeant informs me they’d searched both locations I’d requested the previous afternoon and hadn’t found the stiletto. I’m not too disappointed as I thought it was an outside prospect anyway. It does still leave me with the problem of proving Pamela Wilson was responsible for Jason’s death. Without the weapon, the case is still circumstantial.
In my cubicle, there’s a note from the detective I’d asked to check out the security cams at the All American Sports Bar. He wants me to swing by and see what he’s discovered. He won’t be in yet. So I add it to my to-do list for the day.
There’s also a note from forensics asking me to call. They seem to work 24/7, so I dial their extension and sure enough, the guy I want to speak with picks up.
‘Good morning detective.’
He sounds as wired as I am. I wonder if it takes him as much coffee as me to end up in this state. I wish him good morning and listen as he explains his evaluation of the blood spatter checks at Pamela Wilson’s home. It seems Arnie Collins was right. The attacker did leave the knife in the wound. It was Pamela herself who removed it some short time afterwards. This confirms what I’m already thinking, that this was an attempt by the killer to avoid being soaked in the inevitable spray from the severed femoral artery.
I thank him and add this detail to the notes I already have about the killer. I still have quite a few unanswered questions.
Why stab Pamela in the femoral artery when ninety-five percent of stabbings happen above waist height? Am I looking for a midget from a circus? Fuck, am I even allowed to think that these days?
Why was there no trace of the killer found at the crime scene if he or she were after the contents of the safe? Nada.
Check for door-to-door results
Smart enough to leave the knife in the wound implies forethought. So this was no random killing.
I don’t have much to go on. Still, having refreshed my memory, I look through the online reports from the previous twenty-four hours and find the one I’m looking for.
During the door-to-door, one officer spoke with a neighbor who was walking her dog the night Pamela was killed. She reported that she thought she’d seen an unusual car parked a few doors away from the apartment. She paid little attention to it at the time, but did notice a disabled badge prominently displayed on the dash.
Other than that, no-one else had seen anything unusual.
Even though the car with the disabled sticker was a couple of driveways away, it’s possible that the killer had parked there deliberately to put us off the trail. Although, I’m sure what to make of Pamela having a disabled visitor. I make a note to call her father and ask if he knows of anyone it might have been.
I check the report a second time and confirm that the neighbor was taking her dog for a walk that evening after dark, not late at night. Dusk is around six-thirty, with it being dark by the tail end of seven.
Given the apparent lack of family or friends in Pamela’s life, it seems highly unlikely that she had a disabled visitor that evening. But, you never know. I’ll have someone speak to registered local charities in the area and see if anyone there knows my victim, and check with her
father.
I look at the time and decide it’s late enough now to call Pamela’s father. He’s a golfer. Probably already on the tenth hole. He isn’t. He answers right away. I ask him. But he knows nothing about a friend with a disability, nor is he aware of his daughter being involved with any local charity. I thank him and apologize for disturbing him, then end the call.
I add the possible disabled visitor to the unanswered questions list in my head. I’ll also ask someone to check other houses in the area for possible visitors that night who may have a disabled sticker on their vehicle.
As I’m sitting mulling things over, the detective who wanted me to look over the sports bar security info passes by and invites me for a coffee in the small conference room where he’s set up ready for me. I happily accept and follow him there.
He has seven discs. One for each night leading up to and including the night someone killed Mark Jason. They’re date-stamped. First, he slips the disc for the night of Mark’s death in and fast-forwards to a time he has already noted, and I sit back and watch the events of that evening.
All three men are there, starting from around eight-thirty, and finishing by ten. Nothing particular happens. They’re just buddies sinking a few, then going home.