Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

Hearing Dan say this had a huge positive effect on me. All the worry I’ve been carrying lifts, and the world feels like a better place again. I just need to tell Jerry and 007.

  Upstairs, in the Narcs conference room, my confession doesn’t go down so well. I wish that I’d accepted Dan’s offer to accompany me, but it’s too late. I’m feeling like a target on the range, with two semi-automatics shredding me to pieces.

  When they stop firing, Jerry storms out of the room. I get it. Vegas is the major supplier in this entire area and he’s been after him for a long time.

  When he’s out of range, 007 laughs quietly.

  I’m confused. This is another reaction I’m not expecting.

  ‘Smart thinking, detective.’

  ‘You really think? After all the shouting?’

  ‘Pity you didn’t get your serial-killer.’

  ‘Tell me about it. We were so close.’

  ‘You could have told me about your theory for a rear escape route. I would have listened.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure you would.’

  ‘I guess you don’t know me well enough. Still, you covered it just in case. That was a good call, and it paid off.’

  ‘So you’re not pissed off?’

  ‘Oh, I’m pissed off all right. But not at you. These operations are about taking off the head of the snake, and in this case he got away.’

  ‘Thanks to me.’

  ‘No, detective. Thanks to me. I overlooked the rear escape plan. If I had involved you more, you might have shared your thinking with me. Instead, I closed you out. It’s all on me.’

  ‘You weren’t to know how brilliant I am,’ I smile.

  ‘Nice try, Sammy. But when you accept the responsibility of leadership, you own the results. No ifs or buts.’

  ‘So, does that mean we’re still on for dinner?’

  43

  As I return downstairs, there’s a message from Jimi asking me to call.

  Before I can, Kathy grabs me and pulls me towards the conference room where Jamie and Dene are waiting.

  They ask how it has gone upstairs and I tell them everything’s okay. I see Kathy take a deep breath. I appreciate she would back me up with whatever I decided.

  Last night, when I let Chico Vegas walk, I crossed a line and she crossed with me. I already had respect for her as a detective, now I also respect her as someone I can depend on and trust.

  After that, Dene updates me on what’s now happening with our serial killer case.

  ‘We look more closely at JS3.’

  ‘He’s under 24/7 protection, right?’

  ‘Yes and no, Sammy. We have a car outside his home whenever he’s there. But if he’s at work, he’s on his own. He refuses to take leave. Says his students need him.’

  ‘Students?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s a schoolteacher at Golden Gate High School, teaching Social Studies.’

  ‘Teacher!’

  ‘Yeah, figure that. Surrounded by eighteen-hundred kids between the age of fifteen and eighteen.’

  ‘A happy hunting ground?’

  ‘That’s where he ran into trouble six years ago. He was a new teacher, just started at the school and one senior girl accused him of touching her up.’

  ‘Was it reported to the Department?’

  ‘Yes. And followed up. But do you know how many people make accusations like these every year?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Recently there was a study that showed over two and a half thousand teachers had their license denied, suspended or revoked because of sexual misconduct across the Country. In one year.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘But only one in ten end up being prosecuted, and even then, very few receive a sentence.’

  ‘So, our killer may be onto something?’

  ‘Perhaps. Who knows why she singled out these specific eight cases. This is happening virtually every day.’

  Jamie joins in.

  ‘But, my personal experience of teenagers tells me that a newbie teacher like JS3 was back then, would be a prime target for what they would describe as harmless fun.’

  ‘Not so harmless for the guy’s career,’ I reply. ‘So, what happened in Jon Smith’s case?’

  ‘They dismissed the case against him?’ said Dene. ‘But unfortunately some bright reporter got wind of it and reported it in the Press.’

  ‘Which is where Charlie saw it?’ I suggest.

  Without saying anything, we all know we have just added another brick in the wall.

  One more question answered.

  After that, it’s Kathy who breaks the silence. ‘There’s something else we have learned. Charlie was quick to get off the bus last night. I think she knows we’re after her.’

  ‘She might have seen some of the early press releases this morning with her picture.’

  ‘You think that’ll affect how she operates?’ I ask.

  ‘I think she will want to get this finished and disappear.’

  ‘Okay, Kathy. Assuming you’re right. Lets assume she’ll already know we have JS3 under protection at home, which only leaves the school as an option for her.’

  ‘And where better for a teenage killer to hide than in plain sight amidst eighteen-hundred teenagers,’ says Dene.

  At that point, the conference door opens and one of the other detectives says there’s an urgent call for me on my extension.

  Back in my cubicle, I take the call. A patrol officer has eyes on Charlie at the Coastland Mall downtown. I thank him and ask him to keep her in sight, but not to approach until we get there.

  After rushing back to the conference room to tell the team what’s happening, all four of us make for the car park.

  It takes longer to get out of the building and into Kathy’s car, than it does to pull up in the Coastland Center car park.

  As we rush in, I call the officer to ask if he still has eyes on the girl.

  He doesn’t. He lost her when she entered Dillards and ducked out of another exit.

  Although disappointed, this doesn’t surprise me. The girl’s sharp.

  We split up. There are four main entrances, and we take one each. The plan is not to do anything until we can get more officers here. Just make sure she doesn’t leave the complex.

  Within twenty minutes we have two dozen officers on site, all with a copy of the artist’s impression of Charlie, searching each store one at a time. Leaving an officer at my entrance, I start wandering the mall and use my time to ask some shop-keepers if they had seen her.

  I don’t get any hits until H&M, where an assistant says she remembers the girl because she’d run off with some clothes without paying. An alarm went off at the entrance and she called security, but by then the girl was out of sight.

  She confirms for me that the girl is wearing jeans and a gray hoodie.

  It’s Charlie.

  I ask her if she has any idea which clothes the girl has taken. She thinks about it for a moment, then tells me that all she can do is show me where the girl was just before she ran off.

  I ask her to do that, but quickly realize there are way too many articles on each rack. She could have got away with almost anything.

  Two hours later, I call off the search, gather the team and suggest we grab something to eat while in the mall. There’s a food court, so there should be something for everyone.

  Our combined nourishment for a late lunch includes meat balls from Villa Italian Kitchen, a double Whopper from Burger King and two sandwiches from Subway. We aren’t likely to win a fitness award for this lot. Still, needs must.

  As we eat, we’re all frustrated at getting so close, but with her slipping through our fingers yet again. Something she’s proving to be very good at doing, and I think we’re all worried about that.

  Kathy says that the fact Charlie is clothes shopping confirms that she is still committed to her kill list, and that we’re right to assume she will go after JS3 at the school.

  We spend the rest of our meal debating what else
we can do to keep him safe. But other than keeping him locked in his home, we don’t come up with anything.

  On the bright side, he knows she’s looking for him, which none of the other victims did. He also knows what she looks like.

  He also has total protection outside school hours, but I have no idea of what to do when he’s teaching.

  What we need to do is warn him that Charlie will likely try to get to him at school. Kathy offers to call him and let him know.

  It’s time to head back to the office. I really feel deflated and rudderless. I know who the target is, and who the killer is, but can’t connect the dots.

  It’s in the car that Jamie remembers to tell us he’s followed up on Pamela Wilson’s cell phone record to track down her possible accomplice and has come up with a name. Kyle Sinclair, an ex-wrestler, who lives on the same street as Pamela. Just four doors down. Minor record for brawling in a bar. But that was ten years ago. Nothing since.

  It seems so long ago that I last even discussed Pamela Wilson, yet it’s only a couple of days. So much has happened since. Having found her stiletto knife, we know she’s responsible for killing Jason, but we’re still nowhere in trying to figure out who killed her. Maybe Kyle Sinclair can help with that?

  When we get to the office, we drop Jamie and Dene, then Kathy and I set off to see what we can wrestle out of Mister Sinclair.

  When he answers the knock at his door, he fills the door-frame.

  Even if I didn’t know he’s a former wrestler, I could probably guess. He’s one big man. I would estimate two-forty, mostly muscle. He must still spend a lot of time keeping fit.

  ‘Yeah?’

  We show our badges.

  ‘Mister Sinclair?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Mind if we come in. We have a few questions for you about your relationship with Pamela Wilson, your late neighbor from a few doors along.’

  ‘Don’t know the woman. No point coming in.’

  I give him one of my steely-eyed stares before trying again.

  ‘So, I guess there must be some mistake with Ms. Wilson’s call records. Apparently you and she spoke regularly.’

  ‘Don’t recall.’

  ‘Have you ever been to her apartment?’

  ‘I told you. I don’t know the woman. Why would I go to her apartment?’

  Time for a white lie.

  ‘To leave us your fingerprints, dumb-ass.’

  He takes a moment to give us his considered response. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Remember your bar-fight some years back? You gave us them then. Very kind. It shows, you never know when something’s going to come in useful, do you?’

  I can see I’ve punctured his bravado.

  He stands aside and waves us in.

  The home is almost identical in layout to Pamela Wilson’s, but the content couldn’t be more different.

  The lounge area is basically a gymnasium. There’s equipment everywhere. Stepping machine, rower, weights, everything you could want to keep a two-hundred and forty-pound-body in physical shape.

  ‘Quite a gym you have here, Kyle. Not cheap this lot?’

  ‘Been buying it over the years, you know. Bit at a time.’

  Looking around, I realize there’s nowhere to sit. He sees the problem and leads us through to what would have been Pamela’s professional bedroom. Here, it’s his lounge area. There’s only a two-person sofa, an enormous television screen and an X-box with cables trailing over the floor.

  He points to the seat. I have a picture of his sweaty butt sitting playing games and elect to stand.

  ‘So, Kyle. Why don’t you just walk us through how you helped Ms. Wilson with her business? Her dominatrix business.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Were you ever there when she performed her various services?’

  ‘No. Not into that stuff myself. Not interested.’

  ‘So, when were you there?’

  ‘Am I in trouble? Do I need an attorney?’

  Time to turn on the smooth charm.

  ‘We’re not charging you with anything, Kyle. As you know, someone killed Ms. Wilson and we’re trying to find that person. You are not a suspect. But we would appreciate your help in understanding what happened.’

  ‘Yeah. I get that.’

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you tell us what you did for her, in your own words?’

  He thought about that and makes his decision.

  ‘When she finished a session, she would call me and I would go round.’

  ‘Where was the client when you arrived?’

  ‘Handcuffed to the bed. Christ knows why people get off on that, but everyone to their own.’

  ‘So, you released them, is that correct.’

  ‘Yeah. I unlocked them and made sure they left the house.’

  ‘So, you were like her personal protector.’

  ‘Something like that. After they drove off, Pam would slip me some cash and I would come home.’

  ‘Did you ever see her take a video of a client?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘How about, did you ever see her put anything in her safe?’

  ‘What safe?’

  His response doesn’t surprise me. I carry on.

  ‘Were her clients men?’

  ‘Mostly. I think there might have been a woman or two.’

  ‘Were they always co-operative when you released them?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘When weren’t they?’

  ‘Just from time to time. Rarely.’

  ‘Say, what? Once a year?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds about right.’

  ‘Any particularly difficult clients? Maybe one that you considered dangerous?’

  That gets him thinking, and it’s like watching cogs slowly turning on a rusty old machine.

  ‘There was one. Scared the shit out of me a few years back. I uncuffed her and she attacked me with a blade. Scratched the fuck out of my arm.’

  As he says this, he opens out his left forearm and shows us three parallel thin scars several inches long.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I stomped on the little bitch and threw her out on her ear. Fucking cuts. I bled like a pig.’

  ‘If she was handcuffed to the bed and naked, where did she get the blade from?’

  ‘She had a necklace. Funny looking thing with beads and what looked like a big flat shell in the middle.’

  ‘She kept that on?’

  ‘Yeah. She had a blade hidden in there, behind the shell.’

  I clock that we’ve just solved another part of the puzzle, then remove the folded picture of Charlie from my pocket, open it and show it to him.

  ‘Is this the girl?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s her. But I think she was a little younger. Why? Did she kill Pam?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet, Kyle. We’re looking into all possibilities.’

  I put the picture back in my pocket and thank him for his time.

  We’re just leaving the front door when he asks if we’ve checked out Pamela’s kids.

  I turn, and my confusion must be obvious. So, he clarifies for me.

  ‘She didn’t talk about them to no-one. Fuckin’ weirdos if you ask me.’

  ‘Do you know how we can get in touch with them, Kyle?’

  ‘No idea. Only ever seen them twice.’

  I thank him one more time and walk towards the car, trying to figure out why I’m not as surprised as I should be.

  By the time we would get back to the office, it’ll be too late to accomplish much, so Kathy drops me at my apartment instead, and heads home.

  After watching her drive off, I call Trace and ask if she likes spicy wings.

  Fifteen minutes later we enter the Rusty Nail.

  The barman has a Corona on the bar for me before I even sit down on my favorite stool. He nods his recognition at Trace and without asking, puts a glass of Diet Coke in front of her. He skips the greeting and utters the one p
hrase he thinks I want to hear. He’s right. ‘Hot Spicy Wings for two?’

  I’m tempted to ask Trace how she’s known in my favorite drinking haunt, but guess I already know the answer. Street smarts.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve fed a dozen quarters into the antique jukebox and we’re sitting in my corner booth, tucking into wings, listening to Living in a Ghost Town. This track being an early release of a promised new album, delayed by the epidemic, and strangely appropriate to the lock-down experiences we’ve all just lived through. I guess that’s why they released it early.

  I’m a big fan of the Stones and although I grew up on some of their more recent releases, I much prefer their older tracks. Trace doesn’t know much about this entire generation of Rock music. So, I decide to work on her education as we eat. I talk her through many of the big names, not from my generation, but from my parents’ generation. Explain the British Invasion, Woodstock and flower power. I expect her to be bored, but she isn’t. She soaks it all up, asking questions all the time.

  Good music, relaxed atmosphere, spicy food, and Trace is surprisingly good company. She really has a lot going for her. She deserves a wonderful home and caring folks to help her grow up. And most of all, a proper education. The girl is like a sponge, and smart. She should have a promising career ahead of her. I can’t give her any of these things. I can solve complex homicide cases, but I have no clue about what to do with Trace.

  During our conversation, she asks if I’ve ever wanted kids of my own, and I surprise myself by telling her I’ve already lost one.

  She looks puzzled, and I immediately regret telling her, but feel I might as well finish the story. So I tell her about Bossy-boots and the tough decision I made.

  She goes quiet after that, which worries me. I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. Then she tells me in a whisper, with tears in her eyes, and I didn’t see it coming.

  ‘If that’s how you treat your own flesh and blood, what chance do I have?’