The Hooker, the Handyman and What the Parrot Saw

by Patricia Harman

  Charlie had lots of questions. A man is sitting in a bathtub—his hands and arms are not restrained. So, why was there no thrashing of water on the tub walls or floors? Why does a man sit quietly while his head and face are being wrapped? “Personally, if someone was wrapping my head and my arms were free, I would have done everything in my power to poke a hole in it, but that’s just me,” Grecko said, thinking out loud. She hoped the medical examiner would be able to find something after a thorough examination of the body of the victim.

  Victim. It was hard for Charlie to think of this molester as a victim, but the penalty for molesting a child was not death, even if it should be. Charlie never understood how a sex offender, who wasn’t allowed near schools, playgrounds, or ballfields was allowed to be around his OWN children as long as they weren’t the ones he molested. Just give him time, she thought.

  The second homicide was Dilbert Reigns. No chance of him becoming anything but a perv with such a name. He was the handyman the five-year-old’s mother had hired to do some work around the house after her husband took off with a skanky stripper. Was there any other kind? The stripper smelled money when she met the husband/father on a business trip to Las Vegas and neither of them had any guilt about him leaving his family to fend for themselves.

  Eventually Dilbert, the handyman, would offer to look after the little boy while she ran errands. What single mother could resist such an offer? When the child started refusing to eat popsicles and would cry at the sight of one, his mother took him to a shrink, who eventually determined that Dilbert Reigns referred to his penis as a Popsicle while he repeatedly molested the boy. The judge did not find the therapist’s testimony credible, saying he felt like she had led the child.

  Dilbert Reigns was found in similar fashion, head cocooned in plastic wrap in the basement of an apartment complex where he was working. Grecko was pissed that the minimal evidence left behind at the Jerome Jenkins homicide was leading to nowhere. When he got the call for the Dilbert Reigns homicide he had hoped the plastic wrap would be in one piece and not melted. If it was in one piece, he had a chance to locate physical evidence which could lead to a possible suspect. Melted plastic wrap as physical evidence was worthless, except circumstantially linking the M.O. to other scenes. So much for DNA, fingerprints, or even fracture-matching the wrap back to the roll box it came from. Grecko was only able to determine that plastic wrap was used and that acid was added to disfigure the victim’s face and destroy the crime scene.

  On the previous crime scene, the victim’s face had been swabbed and sent to the lab on the off-chance that they might identify the brand of acid used. Just to be thorough, Grecko bagged the hands of the deceased even though there was no sign of a struggle in either case. Once at the morgue, the fingernails would be scraped in the hopes foreign DNA might be found.

  Reigns, unlike Jenkins, was found on a basement concrete floor and not sitting in water. That meant a chance that physical evidence was left behind. According to Locard’s Exchange Principle: Anyone who enters a crime scene will bring in and leave behind physical evidence, and a person who leaves a crime scene will leave with physical evidence related to the scene. Both can be used for forensic evidence. There was a good chance that foreign hairs, fiber, or touch DNA could be located on Reigns and the surrounding concrete floor. It was apparent whomever was orchestrating the homicides was intelligent and maybe even experienced. Grecko could not take the chance of missing the smallest of details. He even broke out the Alternate Light Source Unit in an attempt to find footwear impressions left on the concrete. The ALSU is an excellent tool for locating fibers and any other physical evidence left behind.

  The first suspect in a possible retaliation homicide case like this is the dead offender’s victims. Victims of violent crime store up a lot of anger. They are not only angry at the molester but at the adults who loved them but failed to protect them. Sometimes they are angrier at the latter, though there is hardly anything less fair to a parent who truly had no idea what was happening. It can boil inside them for years, turning them into a ticking time bomb that usually manifests itself into drug abuse, alcoholism, depression, or in the cruelest twist of all—imitation.

  Occasionally, a victim will go after the molester to exact their revenge, but this wasn’t the case here. These were relatively recent cases and the victims were still very young. Strike one.

  The next likely suspect the police would consider would be someone from the victim’s family—a parent or sibling—but weeks of investigation had cleared all of the family members in both cases. Strike two.

  Then of course there was always the possibility that the two killings had nothing to do with the fact that these two men were molesters and that the crimes were totally random . . . but that left investigators with no motive. Strike three.

  People don’t kill for no reason. There is always a reason. Greed. Need. Lust. Anger. There’s always a reason. There were dots and they had to be connected. Charlie was good making those connections, for other people. Not so much for herself.

  Charlie liked being a detective, no doubt much to the chagrin of her mentor Mike Thompson.

  Suits! She could hear him saying, using his pet name for “useless detectives.”

  Charlotte was immediately assigned to Crimes Against Children upon making detective. She was one of only three female detectives at the time. One female was on maternity leave and the other had announced that she would be following suit in the coming year “God willing.” Damn split-tails she could hear Thompson grouse. Well, at least they didn’t have to worry about maternity leave with Charlie. That ship had sailed, for now. Fucking plaintiff.

  That’s the problem with trusting your life to someone else, she thought. She wondered what a person is supposed to do when someone decides they are no longer interested in the life you have built with them. What do you do then? You have this idea in your head about how your life is going to be and then maybe someone gets sick or killed in a car accident or visits one of the Twin Towers on the wrong day. The surviving person will be devastated and sad for a very long time and their life will never be the same but they will probably recover. What if those same people said, I CHOOSE for this to happen rather than be with you. I CHOOSE to leave you on your own out here to fend for yourself for the rest of your life after I promised to protect you. After I said I loved you. After I pledged my life to you. Charlie likened it to a homicide. Your life taken away. Gone. Poof. In the wind. You have no say. Your home, your best friend, your routine, half your income, half your family—gone. By choice. Their choice. It’s a homicide without a punishment or even a criminal code to cover it. Sure. Dump your family. You deserve to be happy even at the cost of destroying another human being. YOU are more important—save yourself. Your partner is not important.

  Charlie sighed. She hated when she ended up down this rabbit hole. That’s why she took the promotion to detective. That’s why she applied for the police SCUBA diving team. That’s why she took the promotion to sergeant. Keep moving. Thompson always said a moving target is harder to hit.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. I’m fine.

  Charlie was selected to take over a hefty caseload consisting solely of child molesters. Captain Grisolm had warned her that they were the worst of the worst. Charlie had no idea that Landon had so many pervs.

  “It’s a combination of things really,” the captain explained, “we have a high residential population and the schools are educating kids about Chester the Molester so they are reporting it more and the economy is in the toilet which leads to stress which makes it difficult for sex offenders to control their shit.” It made sense. The captain was Sigmund freaking Freud. The captain preferred female detectives in kiddy crimes because their closure rate was higher in terms of confessions from the molesters, and they were better at getting traumatized kids to talk.

  Charlie had difficulty
believing that she was worthy of making detective after the hand life had dealt her, but she knew she was a good detective. It was one of the few true foundations in her life. She was good at this job.

  The average tenure of an officer before being promoted sergeant was twelve-fourteen years but being a female gave Charlie an edge.

  “Sometimes having a vagina comes in handy,” Thompson would say when he was waxing philosophical.

  There were only fourteen female officers total out of a police force of a hundred, so the promotion of females when they did well on the promotion test was expected, unless the females were gay—that was another story. After all, your sex life has everything to do with your competence and your ability to lead. Doesn’t it? Idiots.

  Charlotte remained in investigations after her promotion. New supervisors were always rotated back to patrol first following their promotion, usually the midnight shift in one of the two district stations so they could learn their craft at a slower pace, but Captain Grisolm had pressured Chief Sullivan to leave Charlie in investigations where she could also continue to help with molestation cases if needed.

  “Like the last two,” Clint McCallister’s words were still resonating in her ears.

  “Sarge! You’re not even listening to me!” Clint whined forcing Charlie’s wandering mind back to the Landon Mall crime scene.

  “Sorry, Clint,” she pointed to her head and blinked, “just processing.”

  Clint rolled his eyes. “Well, are you going to do anything about this or not?”

  Charlie sighed. “Where is he?” she asked, unable to see the Fed.

  “Right there!” Clint said, indignantly pointing to Grecko.

  Randy Grecko was a weird little “Poindexter” looking guy who definitely put the “P” in pocket protector. He was short with thinning hair and glasses too big for his face but he was good at what he did. He also had a little crush on Charlie, which meant her evidence would always get processed quickly.

  Sometimes having a vagina really does come in handy.

  Clint waived a hand in Grecko’s direction. “I don’t know what the hell that little propeller head is doing over there but he gave me two minutes to look at the body and now he’s taped it off and he won’t let me anywhere near the damn dumpster. That guy gives me the creeps! Fucking Count Dracula,” Clint said and shivered dramatically.

  I guess Jake Adams isn’t here after all, Charlie thought, surprised at her disappointment.

  “Come on. I’ll talk to him. I want to get a look at the John Doe. Is his face visible?”

  “What face?” Clint quipped.

  Cops are sick.

  Chapter 9

  Are There Maggots on My Phone?

  Charlie headed toward the dumpster with Clint on her heels. She was relieved that Adams wasn’t on scene. What was his first name again? Oh yeah, Jake.

  Who was she kidding? She remembered his name. Jake Adams. She remembered everything about him; the way he looked, the way he smelled, and the way those damned eyes bore right through her.

  Being hot was one thing, but this was her sandbox and the fucking fed was an interloper. She was not going to let him affect her tomorrow morning, the way he had affected her today. God, how Charlie hated acting like a girl. Damn split-tail! she could hear Thompson saying. Shut up Thompson.

  Charlie spoke to Grecko and he invited her and only her into the inner perimeter. “You may take a look at the head but that’s it. Take a picture if you want but then get out of my scene.”

  “Ma’am,” he added after a pause.

  “Yes Sir,” she responded saluting him. Charlie approached the dumpster and as she began to climb up, she affirmed why she was not a CSI. Dumpster diving is the worst. No one wants to do it. Well, no one sane. It is one of the most disgusting jobs ever, ranking right up there with fishing out corpses floating in water, bloated bodies left in ninety-degree homes, and skin slippage on a dead body. Charlie wasn’t sure whether the aroma she was getting a whiff of was the trash, the body, the chemicals, or all three. Her nose was telling her something was off . . . different. Bleach, I’m smelling bleach, she thought to herself. She took one look at her personal attire and decided maybe she should leave this for Grecko. “Hey Grecko, how ‘bout doing a gal a favor and snapping a pic with my cellphone? Is that bleach I’m smelling?”

  Grecko had been standing back just to observe what Charlie was going to actually do and how she was going to do it. “I thought you’d never ask, Sarge. By all means hand me your phone and yes, the one distinct odor seems to be bleach.”

  Charlie handed him the phone. Grecko brought over a heavy-duty milk crate to stand on. He peered over the top of the dumpster and snapped two photos for Charlie. “I got one pic of the head and another showing the positioning of the body. Hope this cures your curiosity Sarge and anyone else’s,” he rolled his eyes toward Clint.

  Before retrieving the phone from Grecko’s hand Charlie said, “Please check it and tell me there are no maggots on my phone.”

  Grecko brushed off his coveralls pretending maggots were on him and chuckled, “No. No maggots. The body appears to be fresh. Not enough time for the maggots to begin their feast, but the rodents have. By the way, you’ll see from the photos that this body is different. Plastic wrap, but no acid.”

  Clint was peering over Charlie’s shoulder as she slid the two photographs back and forth on her phone screen. “Clint, I can feel you literally breathing down my neck. Think you’re close enough?”

  “Sorry Sarge, I just wanted to take a look-see. Why doesn’t this guy have half his face eaten away by acid? Changing it up? Copycat? Hmmm.”

  “You mean why the change in M.O.? Don’t know. Hey Grecko. Have you found anything indicative of acid?”

  “Sorry, from what I can see through the plastic wrap our vic’s face is kinda in one piece . . . not burned off; however, the odor of bleach is very strong. I’m thinking the perp changed up his M.O., or the bleach was already here, or this dump is not related to the other two bodies but the plastic wrap makes that a stretch.” Grecko scratched the top of his head, “Maybe a copycat since we never released info about the acid.”

  Charlie bumped into Clint after turning around to head back to the cruiser. “God damn it, Clint! Must you literally be on top of me? Keep this shit up and you’ll find yourself walking at least ten paces behind my six.” While walking back to the car she continued to study the facial photo. Her gut was kicking in and Clint was distracting her. Before getting into her cruiser Charlie peered over the roof and yelled to Grecko, “Do you need me to have food sent or do you have enough to choose from where you are?”

  From the bellow of the dumpster came his response. “Funny Sarge. You and your sidekick should take your act on the road.”

  Clint and Charlie left the scene to conduct their own research. If this body is connected to the other cases, that made three homicides. Three related homicides equaled a serial killer. Adams was right.

  Grecko continued with his photographs. There can never be too many photos. Sometimes the naked eye will miss what the camera lens will see. If the CSI is unable to recreate the crime scene exactly, credibility is shot and so is the case.

  Once Grecko decided it was time to get down and dirty, a passion of his for reasons passing understanding, he put on a Tyvek suit and booties along with double layered rubber gloves. A dumpster is a breeding ground for, well, everything. He knew every step he made and every level he searched may contain a syringe needle or worse. Charlie notified the state medical examiner as they must be notified and permission must be granted before a body can be moved. A dead body is the property of the medical examiner’s office. As a result, Grecko’s job had become a little easier. They all agreed that they would wait for the M.E.

  Within ninety minutes the state M.E. arrived driving the mortuary van. Grecko had already packaged the hands with
paper bags to protect any evidence in or around the hand and fingernails and M.E. Ronnie Rogers, nodded in approval.

  Thankfully, the dead body was fresh or there may have been unsavory repercussions as the two men loaded the body into the black vinyl body bag positioned on a gurney. The body would then be taken to the ME’s office for the autopsy. At the autopsy Grecko and McCallister would be in attendance. They would need to wear Tyvek suits and eye protection while the M.E. weighed and measured the body and would take additional photographs. The plastic wrap would be removed and packaged and handed over to Grecko for chain of custody and lab submission. Blood samples would be taken and the outside of the body examined carefully for anything that may have contributed to the cause of death. Complicated shit. We have so many boxes to check it’s amazing we ever win a case, Charlie thought.

  It was late when Charlie arrived home for the second time. As always, Thompson’s parrot and beloved alter ego was there waiting to greet her. “Fucking suits!” the parrot squawked. “Hi Moses,” Charlie grinned at the feather covered wise-ass. The bird was annoying as hell and had a vocabulary that would rival most sailors but the bird was one of Thompson’s most prized possessions along with his 1955 primer gray Chevrolet POS. Coming home to the bird of her mentor wasn’t the same thing as coming home to someone waiting for her but it was better than coming home to an empty apartment.

  In spite of being out so late on the call, Charlie was determined to beat the fed to her office the next morning arriving at eight twenty-five just to be sure, only to find him sitting in her office, self-satisfied and smirking with two cups of Starbucks coffee.

  “I guess we can agree now that we do in fact have a serial?” he asked rhetorically as he handed her one of the cups. She glared at him, sighed, tried not to smile, and took the coffee with a shake of her head. He grinned back. She sat down at her desk and they sat quietly drinking their coffee and staring at each other, both oddly comfortable in the silence.