by Bruce Most
Senator McCarthy latched on to the report, denouncing Raschke along with several other college professors in a speech in Madison, Wisconsin. “Known agents of the Communist government,” he’d railed, a glaring example of how “godless Communism is infiltrating and corrupting America’s educational system.”
McCarthy’s accusations were in turn picked up by Crawford Kane, a state senator from Colorado Springs with ambitions of becoming governor. Kane accused Raschke of being a fifth columnist, undermining the nation by sowing the seeds of Communist aggression through his avid support of the campus chapter of the American Youth for Democracy, a known Communist front organization. Kane called Raschke unfit to teach and lobbied for “this Jewish radical to be expelled from our midst.”
Kane didn’t stop there. He accused Raschke of being one of fifty to seventy-five Communist agents operating undercover in Colorado, preparing to blow up public utilities and local schools the moment they received their “marching orders from the heathen forces in Moscow.”
Three weeks before Benedict’s murder, the university’s Board of Regents fired Raschke. They based their decision on grounds of attempting to “indoctrinate our impressionable youth through writings of alien ideologies of Socialist and Communist design,” serving as an “unrenounced member of the Communist party,” “lying on his application” regarding his Communist membership, and being a “pedestrian teacher.”
Paula was livid at his firing. Nothing but a witch-hunt, she ranted one morning standing in our kitchen. Raschke was anything but a pedestrian teacher, and the Regents had kowtowed to McCarthy zealots. But the professor’s public defenders were few and anonymous.
Curiously, the normally outspoken professor reacted with restraint in his response, publicly denying the charges only once. Since receiving a subpoena to appear before the House Un-American Activities Committee, he’d retreated from public view. Anonymous friends reported him to be depressed, immersed in his writing, and remaining in seclusion with his wife of twelve years, Kim, a former Miss Missouri.
Unless Benedict was a secret commie agent working with Raschke, none of this suggested a clue why he’d written the disgraced professor’s unlisted phone number in his notebook.
My instinct was to call Raschke and show up on his doorstep. Catch him off-guard in an attempt to get him to explain his connection to my dead partner. But I couldn’t fit it into the rest of my errands for the afternoon without the risk of Paula asking where the hell I’d been, so I let it go for later.
Monday, I dropped into the parole offices, located downtown in a shabby brick building on Fourteenth. Hector Diaz’s parole officer, Simon Fitch, worked in a dingy second-floor office with an inspiring view of an alley.
“You get your ass in here tomorrow, Lulu, or I’ll swear out a revoke and have you paintin’ your toenails in the joint before sundown,” he barked into his phone as I stood in my uniform in the open doorway to his closet-sized office. “Got that? . . . I don’t give a rat’s ass what your excuse is. Parolees don’t get excuses, Lulu, ’cept death, and you gotta get my permission even for that . . . Tomorrow, my office, nine-thirty sharp, teeth brushed and a big goddamn smile on your face. You ain’t here at nine-thirty on the dot, I call in a revoke. Got that? . . . I knew you’d hear me, babe.”
Fitch slammed the receiver down on the cradle and shook a weary head. “Damn broad skipped her last visit. Thinks it’s no big deal. Thinks doing parole is doing juvie time. Not with Simon Fitch, it ain’t.”
“Tough job,” I said.
The PO motioned toward a stack of papers on his gray metal desk. “I used to make surprise house calls on broads like Lulu to jack ’em up. Now I got so many cases I spend half my time on the damn phone and the other half doing paperwork. Helluva way to supervise these assholes.”
He made an exasperated motion with his hands, large hands attached to a short, muscular body. He looked in his late thirties. Many of the newer parole officers these days were college types with degrees in psychology or social work. Fitch looked old school. He projected a rough quality to him. Ex-cop or ex-military.
“So what can I do for you, officer?” he asked in a voice that sounded from back east. He worked on a kitchen match in his mouth. “One of my parolees pissing in your precinct? Drinking in your bars? Waving a gun?”
I shut the door and stepped into the airless room. “Hector Diaz.”
The PO straightened in his chair. “Yeah, good old Hector. Looks like he’s going away for good, this time. One less guy on my caseload. What do you want with him?”
“I’m trying to find him. He’s not at his apartment. Word is he’s gone into hiding.”
Fitch frowned. “Why? Homicide released him. For now.”
“Apparently he’s worried some cop will give him the final big ride for the cop killing.” I skipped the fact the Mexican might be more afraid of being killed by dirty cops. That was too close to Benedict. “I figured you better than anyone might have an idea where I might find him. Another sleeping address, hangouts, family, buddies, job location.”
Dark brown eyes under thick eyebrows studied me for a long moment, hard curiosity in them. “You look familiar.”
I was hoping to avoid revealing who I was or why I wanted to find Diaz. I didn’t want word getting back to Detective Bock. Yet I had no a choice if I had any hope of finding Diaz. “Joe Stryker, District One.”
Fitch snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “The same Stryker who—”
“Yeah. Benedict Greene was my partner.”
Lou Sheppard had made sure my name made the paper.
“Shit! Sorry to hear that, pal,” he said. “Gotta be a bitch, losing a partner that way. Twice, I understand.”
The parole officer stood and extended a hand. “My condolences.” Tiny initials NT were tattooed just above the V between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He caught my inspection and said, “Old girlfriend. Hard to get rid of the past, isn’t it?”
Ain’t that the truth.
Fitch laughed at his own line, a hard laugh that sounded out of place. He sat down and ran fingers through black, wavy hair slicked with Brylcreem. I settled in a chair in front of his desk. Like his desk, the rest of the tiny room was cluttered, the wall behind him plastered with overlapping photos of what I presumed were current parolees. Men, women, young, old. Two of the larger photos showed Fitch leading handcuffed parolees to jail—a blunt reminder to his caseload what happens when they disobey his ass. A long curved sword with fancy design work on the handle also hung on the wall.
“Quite a sword,” I said.
Fitch glanced at it and grinned. “A samurai sword. A war souvenir. It makes my parolees nervous that I might yank it off the wall and use it on them when they don’t obey.”
The parole officer’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, curiosity etched in his face. “Why do you need to find Hector?” he asked.
“I have questions regarding the investigation.”
“Are you working with homicide?” he asked.
I hesitated. “Not officially.”
The PO chewed contemplatively on his matchstick. “Then I can’t officially help you.”
“Unofficially?”
Fitch shook his head. “No way. If something happens to Diaz and it comes back that I gave you a lead, I’d be out on my ass.”
“Nothing will happen to Diaz.”
“He’s suspect number one for killing your partner.”
“It would be stupid for me to harm him, don’t you think? I’d be the obvious suspect.”
He jerked a thumb toward a four-drawer filing cabinet. “I got files full of stupids.”
“All right, if you can’t suggest where I might find him, at least tell me some things about him.”
“Like what?”
“He ever mention my partner’s name, before the murder?”
The PO shook his head. “Never heard it. Should he have?”
“Curious if they’d crossed paths befor
e that night. Maybe my partner arrested him in the past and Diaz had it in for him—something like that.”
Fitch chuckled. “If Hector killed every cop who’d arrested him, you’d have only half the police force you got now.”
“What was Diaz in prison for last?” I said.
“He served thirty months on a four-to-six for burglary and grand larceny. Been out nine months.”
“He’s got a long rap sheet beyond that, right?”
Fitch nodded. “As thick as the Yellow Pages. He’s been a busy boy. B and E, auto theft, felony menacing, assault and battery, fencing stolen goods—”
“He do time for fencing?”
“A little in county. Stuff wasn’t worth much.”
“Detectives found watches in his possession. Presumably from the pawnshop, though the owner won’t fess up to it.”
“That’s what I heard,” Fitch said.
“Possession doesn’t prove he actually took the watches from the pawnshop the night my partner died. Maybe he was fencing them for the killer.”
Fitch narrowed his eyes on his wide face. “Possible. But as I said, Hector has a history of assault and battery, and felony menacing. Did prison time for assault.”
“You believe he could have killed my partner?”
“Absolutely.” Fitch cocked his head. “You have reason to suspect otherwise?”
“No, no,” I said hastily. I was fishing in dangerous waters. “Just satisfying myself that homicide has the right guy. They’re not the most competent bunch.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” The PO’s tongue shifted the match to the other corner of his mouth. “They call you The Denver Kid, don’t they?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“You solved that Rawlins case. Helluva coup for a street cop. You made homicide look like idiots.”
It doesn’t take much.
“You know something they don’t?” he asked.
“No,” I said. His skepticism was exactly the kind of response I feared. I could see him high-tailing it to homicide and blabbing that I was trying to prove them wrong—again. “I’m just doing a little backstopping.”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand,” he said, though I wasn’t convinced he did.
“Did Diaz own a black-handled British commando dagger?” I asked.
He pursed his lips. “If he had, I woulda confiscated it and revoked his ass. Was that the murder weapon?”
I nodded. The phone rang and Fitch talked several minutes before telling a guy named Sid he had somebody in his office. He hung up. “Can’t get some parolees to get to my office on time. Then I get guys like Sid I can’t get off the fuckin’ phone. A bomber just outa Cañon City. All he ever does is jaw about dynamite and how to make bombs. Bet he’s back in before the year’s out.”
“A cousin of Diaz said you supervised Hector like a hawk,” I said.
Fitch worked up a tight smile. It looked like a lot of work for him. “You gotta with guys like Hector. He grew up in Brownsville, Texas, with an alcoholic uncle. Dropped out of school at eleven, was doing juvie time by thirteen. Used to stand out in the streets and dare cars to hit him, to show off to his pals. A bug doctor called him a ‘sociopathic personality.’ I didn’t let him shit without my permission. If I learned he was out drinking or hanging round pool halls, I’d track his ass down and jack him up. Guys like Hector, you gotta nail their back door shut and sit on the front porch and hope the fuck they don’t go out a window.”
“Seems like he went out the window.”
His tight smile narrowed into a scowl. That didn’t take as much work as the smile. “You come here to say I didn’t do enough with Hector and that’s why your partner is dead?”
“No, no. I’m sure you did all you could. You got any idea where Diaz was that night?”
“None. I sit on his ass, I don’t sleep with it.”
“He doesn’t have an alibi.”
“That’s hardly news. I can tell you that homicide called and said Diaz claimed he was home that night waiting for me. Claimed I’d made an appointment with him.”
“Did you?”
“Hell, no. Like I said, I don’t have time for that. Besides, I never announce parolee visits in advance. I was out having a beer with friends.”
I rose from the chair. “I won’t take any more of your time.”
“Sorry I can’t help you. But tell you what I will do. I’ll look into where he might be. On my own time if I have to.”
“He due for a check-in with you?”
He flipped through a large black appointment book. “Wednesday morning. Ten a.m. sharp.”
If I didn’t find Diaz before then, I could lay in wait for him outside the building. Even in hiding, he’d be a fool to skip on this guy.
“Let me know if you find Hector,” he said. “Tell him he better show up Wednesday. My condolences again for your partner.”
The phone rang as I left the room. “Fitch,” he barked. A young kid in green work clothes sat on a stiff wooden chair in the hallway. He put on a show of nonchalance but wasn’t succeeding as he listened to the PO’s voice rise behind the door.
My visit had been a mistake. A serious mistake. The risks were for nothing. No leads on where I might find Jailbait. Fitch was a by-the-book PO, which made it a damn good chance our conversation would worm its way back to Detective Bock.
Chapter 9
With no help from Hector Diaz’s parole officer, and no one else willing or able to reveal where I might find the Mexican, I’d hit a dead end. I switched focus to Marcus Raschke and called the professor before my evening shift. No answer. I was striking out everywhere.
Then it struck me. Like most seasoned criminals—like most people—Diaz was a creature of habit. In Jailbait’s case, his habit was underage poontang. He might be in hiding, but I’d bet my house and my car he wouldn’t give up his young girls. All I needed to do was find out which poontang.
But that meant bringing back in Moroni Perdue. After leaving Diaz’s apartment building the other night, I’d let it be known I’d lost interest in finding him. But time was running out. Either homicide would bring him back in or he’d wind up dead.
So as we moseyed in and out of pool halls, bars, and flop houses Monday evening, I poked around for a lead to Diaz and his girls. It didn’t take long to come up with the skinny that Jailbait was humping a fourteen-year-old named Tomasita Ortiz, who lived with her parents on the 3300 block of Vallejo. My source, a small-time drug pusher with the nickname “Stinky” for reasons all too obvious if you’re standing within fifty feet of him, added that Diaz drove a red, late 1930s Ford pickup.
“I thought you gave up on finding Diaz,” said Perdue after we escaped the foul air of Stinky.
“So did I,” was all I said.
We drove to the 3300 block of Vallejo, which ran north and south on the other side of the South Platte river from our precinct. Small, square clapboard houses lined the block, along with vehicles so run-down you suspected they’d found their final resting place. I didn’t know which house the girl lived in, but if Diaz were around so would be his red Ford pickup. We cruised the street and crawled along the alleys that backed the homes along Vallejo, but no signs of his pickup.
We returned to our precinct, answered two calls, one a violent drunk in a bar, the other a tip of a B&E at a dry cleaner’s, which turned out to be a false alarm.
When calls slowed, we returned to Vallejo street, but still no signs of Diaz or his pickup.
The next evening we repeated our surveillance. Same results. Except for our last check, around eleven. A late thirties beat-up red pickup with a spare tire on the running board sat snugged next to a chain-link fence in the alley behind a house in the middle of the block. We pulled up behind the pickup.
I hopped out. The driver’s side of the pickup was unlocked, so I opened the door and shined my flashlight on the registration spring-wrapped around the steering column. The pickup belonged to Hector Diaz.
I scanned the house. It fit the houses on the rest on the block, small and tired. Two strips of concrete for a driveway with dead grass in between ran from the side of the house to the street. No garage. Also no vehicle in the driveway. Diaz most likely showed up only when her parents were out.
I returned and told Perdue to drive to the street side of the house while I checked out the backside. Stay with the patrol car, but stay alert. If Diaz came busting out, detain him. If nosy neighbors asked what was going on, tell them we’re responding to a report of a break-in and to go back inside.
“This isn’t a good idea, Joe,” said Perdue.
He drove off and I slipped through a gate into the backyard. The yard was missing most of its grass. A truck tire filled with sand and toys sat next to a broken swing set. Luckily, no dog was pulling guard duty. I scooted around to the side of the house with the driveway strips until I could peer in a window that looked into a tiny living room. A lamp was on but no one was in the room.
I returned to the back of the house and this time caught voices seeping through a shaded window cracked open a few inches to let in night air. No, not voices. Moaning and heavy breathing. Either someone was working out with weights or Diaz was working out with his poontang. I peeked through the crack. Enough light spilled in from the rest of the house to reveal two people going at it on a rickety bed.
The back door was unlocked and I crept into a kitchen. I tiptoed to the bedroom, reached in the half-open door, and flicked on the bedroom light.
“Jesus Christ!” yelled Hector Diaz, bolting naked out of bed. The young girl mixed up in the sheets screamed. Perdue must have heard her all the way to the squad car.
I raised my hand for Diaz to relax, though my gun was drawn in case he didn’t.
He froze at the sight of my uniform and my gun, his erection dying fast.
“Sit,” I said, nodding toward the bed.
He didn’t move. “You can’t bust in here and pull a fuckin’ gun on—”
I wiggled my gun. “Sit!”
He sat and cupped both hands over his privates. He had a stocky body with a wide square face and short black hair.