Croaker: Chalk Whispers (A Detective Fey Croaker LAPD Novel Book 4)

by Paul Bishop

  “Fine. Please remember your answers must be in the form of a question. The game board reveals the word, information.”

  “Errrrrrrrr,” Rhonda made a buzzer noise. “What did the suspect want ”

  “Correct. Sexual torture looks different from this set-up. There is no ritualistic behavior, and the method of torture was not designed to lead to death. Let's move on.”

  “I'll take method of operation for a hundred.”

  “Scopolamine.”

  “Errrrrrrrr! What is the most common drug used by pros to get information?”

  “Exactly right. Which means our suspect is not a pro. Trying to get information from somebody in this manner is stupid and sloppy.”

  “Let's try hodge-podge for two hundred.”

  “There is nothing in the hodge-podge category,” Hammer said.

  “Do I get to go on to the bonus round?”

  “Sorry. You don't even get the home game.”

  “What a gyp.”

  “Maybe, but at least we know we're on the same track. The victim was naked and tied up, but that speaks more to intimidation than sexual abuse. There was no indication of rape or sodomy. The criminalists found no semen or other fluids to indicate sexual arousal. The victim's heart attack was a surprise.”

  “Our suspect isn't a serial killer or a sexual pervert,” Rhonda agreed. “But neither is he a professional torturer. Where did he get the staple gun?”

  “Brought it with him.”

  “Obviously, but did he buy it or bring it from a personal tool box.”

  “I'd say he bought the stapler prior to coming here. Maybe the vice, and whatever he used to cut the victim’s hand, as well. Everybody has watched enough television to know you have to dispose of the weapon. If he had a stapler and a saw of his own, he wouldn't want to use them and then throw them away. Are there any hardware stores nearby?”

  “We'll have to check.” Rhonda scribbled on the clipboard she was carrying.

  “The nine-one-one tip about the body was anonymous, right?”

  “Traced back to a local pay phone. No fingerprints.”

  “I don't see the killer calling in the tip. It must have been somebody else.”

  “A homeless person or a junkie who broke in to use the warehouse as a crash pad.”

  Hammer nodded. “We need to get in touch with the Hollywood transient detail to get a list of locals who frequent this area. We’ll see if we can find who discovered the body.”

  Rhonda made another note on the clipboard.

  The duo had already called in the forensics circus from Scientific Investigation Division for a second go-round. The criminalist, photographer, and fingerprint personnel had grumbled about doing the same crime scene twice, but they had come and gone competently before leaving the two detectives alone at the scene.

  “The guys at Hollywood aren't completely incompetent,” Rhonda said.

  “Maybe not,” Hammer agreed. “But Thad Jacobs is looking for a synchronized idiocy partner for the next police Olympics.”

  “Okay, he's an exception. But I'm sure his team searched this area as thoroughly as we have. We need to expand the crime scene, go over the area outside the warehouse.”

  “You think this guy dumped his equipment nearby?”

  “It's possible,” Rhonda said. “The staple gun is over the top, movie stuff. If the killer is making those kind of decisions, maybe he's making other mistakes.”

  “It's worth a try,” Hammer agreed. “The guy doesn't appear to be a mastermind. Probably can't even phrase his answers in the form of a question.”

  “Who knows?” Rhonda said. “Maybe he'll turn out to be the perfect synchronized idiocy partner Jacobs needs.”

  TEN

  “Where are Hammer and Nails hiding?” Fey asked, as she and Monk joined Alphabet and Brindle in the RHD office.

  “They're at the crime scene,” Brindle said. “They don’t have anything substantial yet, but they're working on it.”

  “We need something. Clues were scarce at the coroner's. You guys have any ammunition I can use with Cecily Flynn-Rogers?”

  “I hate double-barreled names,” Alphabet said. “It's like naming your dog Rover-Spot or Fido-Prince.”

  Brindle put a stop to Alphabet’s rambling by pulling out a sheaf of notes, “Our victim, Bianca Flynn, was a real piece of work,” she said. “We have a whole gaggle of suspects.”

  Fey sat down behind her desk in the chair she had brought with her from West LA. She opened the middle drawer of the desk then shut it again without removing anything. Her actions had been smooth and unhurried. With a total lack of reaction, she reached for the pile of copied newspaper articles Brindle was holding out.

  Brindle was standing close enough to have seen the inside of Fey's desk drawer. She forced herself to copy Fey's nonchalance.

  The bustling of the RHD detectives in the room had stopped like a DVD put on pause. Then they started to move again with something like a collective release of breath. The moment of suspended animation had passed.

  “These came from a Nexus computer search we did at the library, Brindle said. “Bianca has a knack for getting herself in the news.”

  “She specializes in children's rights,” Alphabet said. He knew something was going on concerning Fey's desk, but was sharp enough not to ask.

  “She's litigated a number of high profile appeals where allegations of sexual or physical abuse have been leveled against a parent, usually the father,” Brindle said. “Bianca files appeals in cases where the courts were not satisfied by the evidence presented and gave non-supervised visitation rights to the accused parent. In some cases, the accused parent is given given sole custody after the courts determined the allegations were unfounded and the filing parent was an obsessive liability.”

  “Which means, the accused parent continues to have access to the child to continue the abuse, which may or may not have been going on in the first place.” Fey had heard the story before. “Bianca always represents the parent who made the accusations?”

  Alphabet’s expression was neutral. “Always.”

  “Tough if you're the accused parent and the accusations are unfounded,” Fey said.

  “Where there's smoke there's fire,” Alphabet said.

  “You know better, Alphabet” Fey said, slightly exasperated. “I'm first in line to champion the cause of molested children.” The sexual abuses of Fey's past were not a secret to those who worked with her.

  Fey's childhood horrors had been splashed across the newspapers a couple of years earlier when tapes from her psychiatric sessions were leaked to the press during a major murder investigation involving JoJo Cullen.

  Cullen had been an NBA rookie of the year basketball star who had been arrested for murdering a series of young males. It had been Fey's crew who'd handled the investigation. After Cullen's arrest, however, the case had been transferred to RHD because of the notoriety. Fey had begun to have doubts about Cullen's guilt, but trying to convince RHD proved impossible. They had their suspect and their glory, the case was closed.

  Fey and her team refused to let the issue go. Aided by Fey's FBI lover, Ash, they had shaken the case until the real villain fell out, but not before the personal cost to Fey left more scars.

  “The first mud slung in any child custody dispute involves allegations of sexual or physical abuse,” Fey direct her tirade at Alphabet. “Most of it remains unprovable.”

  “Bianca Flynn didn't think so,” Alphabet said. “She won new judgments in most of the case.”

  “There were cases she didn't win,” Brindle said. “Those caused the biggest controversy.”

  “Tell me,” Fey said.

  “Whenever Bianca didn't win a case, the children and the parent who made the abuse allegations would disappear on the underground railway.”

  “Disappear?”

  “As in vanish,” Alphabet said.

  “The synonym training is great,” Fey said. “But what I need is an expl
anation of how they disappeared.”

  Brindle found a clipping and held it out to Fey. “This is a feature article on the Underground Railroad. It's a loose-knit coalition of rogue social workers, civil rights lawyers, children's rights activists, churches, sanctuaries, and otherwise law-abiding citizens who harbor fugitive parents and their kids. These parents believe their kids have been sexually molested and are ready to do anything — including defying the courts and fleeing — to make sure it doesn't happen again.”

  “I thought the Underground Railroad had to do with slaves,” Fey said.

  “The original was,” Alphabet said. “During the mid-nineteenth century, it was established to help escaping slaves to freedom. This new version is for parents and kids trying to escape abusers. It's a renegade Federal Witness Protection Program, except many of the families involved are being chased by the FBI.”

  Fey took the article from Brindle. As she did, Frank Hale walked by and unobtrusively dropped a folded square of paper on her desk. Fey scooped it up before anyone else in the room noticed the transaction.

  “How big is this underground railroad?”

  Brindle pointed to a paragraph in the article. “Five to six hundred families are involved with over two thousand safe houses nationwide.”

  “Bianca Flynn was part of the movement?”

  “She was its prominent public face,” Brindle said. “Which means somebody could have been trying to get information from her regarding the whereabouts of their kids.”

  “Good grief.”

  “It gets even more complicated,” Alphabet said.

  “Of course it does,” Fey said.

  “Bianca Flynn had two children, a five-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy. She was also estranged from her husband, Mark Ritter —”

  “Don't tell me,” Fey said, holding up a hand. “I can see this coming. She'd made allegations of sexual abuse against Ritter who entered into the bad guy’s version of the underground railroad was hiding her children.”

  “Got it in one,” Alphabet said.

  “Hey, Croaker,” a voice yelled from the front of the squad room.

  Fey and the others turned to see Vic Rappaport, a slovenly practical joker who was part of the old guard at RHD.

  Rappaport came across with a self-satisfied grin. “You got a customer at the counter. Some guy named Mark Ritter. And he's got a bunch of lawyers with him.”

  ELEVEN

  “Timing is everything,” Fey said quietly. “I'll be right there,” she told Rappaport. She pushed the fingers of both hands through her hair and blew out a heavy breath. “This day is getting longer by the minute.”

  “At least we don't have to spend time tracking down the main suspect,” Alphabet said.

  “We don't know he's the main suspect, there are others,” Brindle said.

  “First rule of homicide investigation,” Alphabet retorted. “the spouse is always the main suspect.”

  “The first suspect maybe, but not the main suspect.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Stop bickering,” Fey said, “or I'll put you both down for a nap.”

  Using the newspaper clippings as a shield, Fey opened the note dropped by Hale. It had a single name written on it — Rappaport.

  “Is he the bastard who put that thing in your desk?” Brindle asked, looking at the note over Fey's shoulder.

  “I'd say so,” Fey told her. “Maybe we do have some allies down here.”

  “Don't bank on it,” Alphabet said. He tapped the desk top lightly with the tips of his fingers. “What's in the drawer?”

  “Wait and see,” Fey told him. “All will become clear.”

  In the small Robbery-Homicide Division lobby, Mark Ritter was surrounded by five interchangeable men in dark suits, pristine white shirts, nondescript ties, and flashy cufflinks. Lawyers.

  Ritter stood out because of his height. He was six-five with a lean build and a sculpted face. His hair was tar black and razor cut, his suit a perfect light gray pinstripe set off with a sharp maroon silk tie. His most outstanding feature, however, was he was white.

  Ritter caught Fey's look. “You seem surprised, Detective.”

  “I am,” Fey said. “I didn't know you were white.” She might as well be candid.

  “Do you have a problem with interracial marriage?”

  “Not so you'd notice,” Fey said. “Do you think it has something to do with your wife's death?”

  “I don't know anything about my ex-wife's death.” Ritter said. “My only concern I is my children. Do you know where they are?”

  “Until a minute ago, I didn't even know there were children. My team was assigned the case this morning. We're playing catch up with the preliminary work. Would you like discuss the situation with me in private.”

  All five of the lawyers moved forward. Fey held up a hand. “I'm sorry, gentlemen. Our interview rooms are tiny. Mr. Ritter won't need more than one of you.”

  “Pembroke,” Ritter said, and one of the clones joined him.

  “Arthur Pembroke,” the man said. He extended his hand. He was roundish with a prissy little pencil mustache. His face gleamed with a sheen of perspiration. “I'm Mr. Ritter's personal lawyer.”

  Fey didn’t ask if the other men were Ritter's impersonal lawyers. Instead, she shook Pembroke's hand and ushered the two men into an interview room to the left of the main squad bay. She directed them toward chairs an impoverished inner city school wouldn’t accept.

  “My condolences, Mr. Ritter,” Fey said, taking the third chair in the room. “This must be a very hard time for you.”

  “You have no idea, Detective Croaker. But it's because my children are missing, not because my ex-wife is dead.”

  Fey wondered if Ritter always sounded so pompous. “I was unaware you were divorced. I thought you were estranged?”

  Pembroke leaned forward. “My client was in the final stages of divorce proceedings. Papers had been filed, but the battle for custody was ongoing.”

  Fey smiled at the lawyer. “Mr. Pembroke, I don't mean to be rude,” which meant she did mean to be rude, “but your client is not being interrogated. This is an interview only. No Miranda admonition, no accusatory questions, simply a quest for information. I would appreciate it if you would let Mr. Ritter answer for himself, or you will be asked to leave.”

  “You can't do that,” Ritter said.

  “Yes, I can,” Fey told him. “If you expect to get help from me, we need to freely cooperate, not hide behind fancy suits.”

  Fey knew if Ritter was eventually arrested, this interview could be used as evidence. But Ritter wasn't under arrest, so Miranda didn't apply. Fey was sure Pembroke knew this, but it was a fencing match.

  Ritter looked at Pembroke, who settled back in his chair with a fastidious nod. “My apologies, Detective Croaker,” Pembroke said. “Simply trying to earn my fee.”

  “No problem, counselor.” Fey switched her attention back to Ritter. “Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

  “I'm a partner in a corporate law firm.”

  “Which one?” Fey was surprised she needed to ask. Usually lawyers blurted out the name of their firm as if you should already know it.

  “Flynn, Barrington, and Simmons.”

  “Flynn?” Fey asked. “As in Judge Luther Flynn, your wife's father?”

  “Yes. He is, of course, a figurehead in the firm while he sits on the bench.”

  “Of course,” Fey replied. Why hadn't Ritter told her up front he was in the family firm. “How long have you been with them?”

  “A two years.”

  “And already a partner?”

  “I brought an established clientele with me.”

  “How long have you been estranged from your wife.”

  “Two years.”

  Interesting, Fey thought. “She had current custody of your children?”

  Ritter made an impatient movement with a sweep of his hand. “The court originally ordered joint custody, bu
t Bianca fought the decision by making absurd allegations of sexual abuse against me regarding our daughter Sarah.”

  “Was there an investigation?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the results?”

  “The district attorney's office refused to bring charges on the basis there was no substantive evidence.”

  “Was there a disclosure made by your daughter?” Fey knew the drill with child abuse cases easily reading between the lines of Ritter's statement.

  “My daughter was four when she was interviewed by a district attorney and an LAPD child abuse investigator. She was not qualified to testify in court and it was determined the statement she made were the result of coaching on the part of Bianca. It was nonsense. I would never hurt my children.”

  Fey knew it was not unusual in child custody cases for one parent to coach a child to the point of brainwashing against the other parent. She would have to pull the file from child abuse to get the full story. “What about your son?”

  “Mark Jr. is now eight. He told the district attorney Bianca made Sarah repeat things over and over.”

  “Other than her desire for sole custody, why would your wife make false accusations?”

  “Bianca was a fanatic. She was obsessed with child sexual abuse. When she was a child, she made the exact same unfounded allegations against her own father that she forced Sarah to make against me.”

  “Was she upset when you joined her father's law firm?”

  “She refused to see sense. It meant financial security, a place in the community. It gave us everything we could want.”

  Everything you could want, perhaps, Fey thought, seeing where this primrose path was leading.

  “The sexual abuse was all in her mind. She fed on it. She was like a raging alcoholic desperately searching for the next drink.”

  “Was she this way when you married her?”

  “Nowhere near as bad,” Ritter said. “I knew she had strong beliefs, but I never knew she would go over the edge. If you know anything about her, you know there were charges pending against her for harboring parental fugitives and their children from rightful custody parents. And she's done the same thing with Sarah and Mark Jr.”