Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  They drove up to the steel fence gate and a guard dressed in a dark blue uniform and armed with a pistol in his waist holster walked up to them.

  “Good morning, officer,” the guard said leaning down on Frank’s side, “how can I help?”

  “I need to see your security chief,” Frank said.

  “Any trouble? Did we report a breach?” the guard asked.

  “That I will discuss with your security chief,” Frank replied.

  “Yes, sir,” the guard replied and walked back to his guard house and pressed a button on his panel inside. The two halves of the fence door slid back and Frank drove in. He didn’t really want to meet the security chief; however, he knew the guard would not refuse if he thought his own boss had called the police. Otherwise, the refinery was private property and no doubt had top lawyers on retainer who would defeat any attempt by Frank to get a warrant.

  Inside of the complex was a giant maze of steel pipes punctuated occasionally with huge vats. Workers in hard hats milled around the metallic jungle oblivious to their presence. This fact did not go unnoticed by Clara.

  “They don’t seem surprised that the police is here,” Clara said.

  “They have a bad history with Department of Environmental Protection and Department of Labor: oil spills, industrial accidents, what not,” Frank replied, “they must be used to seeing state officials coming and going all the time.”

  “Hey, you passed the trailer with the ‘SECURITY’ sign on top,” Clara said.

  She pointed out the window at a couple of security guards smoking cigarettes outside their office. Frank was driving towards the office building.

  “I am going straight to the Boss,” Frank said, “that was just a bluff for the guard outside.”

  “Think he will volunteer his employment records?” Clara asked.

  “No way,” Frank laughed, “and we have no basis to approach the court for a search warrant either. Besides, he would be a fool to have Adam on payroll, at least as a tanker driver.”

  “Then what do you expect out of him?” Clara asked.

  “I want to ruffle his feathers, see what shakes out,” Frank said.

  They had been driving on dirt since entering the complex but the office building had a paved lot half filled with cars. Frank parked his cruiser right outside the main door in the no parking zone. A receptionist seated behind a curved wood paneled desk greeted them with a forced smile.

  “We didn’t call the police,” she said.

  “I am here to see Mr. Larry Dunlap,” Frank said.

  “What is this about?” she asked.

  “Kidding, lady? This is a police matter. Call him tell him I will be at his door in two minutes,” Frank replied.

  Frank gave her no chance to reply and started walking towards the elevators. Joe and Clara rushed after him. They were on the fifth floor walking around looking for Dunlap’s office before the receptionist could even call him and make him aware.

  The door to Dunlap’s corner office was wide open when Frank read his nameplate and walked inside. Larry Dunlap was a man in his early sixties, short of stature with squirrel like hair out front and a crewcut behind. He was dressed in brown khakis, and a cream colored shirt with a gray sports coat on top. He held forth on an enormous black leather chair that would have been two size too big even for a six and half feet tall man; Larry looked like he could slide down anytime.

  There was another individual in the room. He was lean, fit and muscular. He was wearing a black t-shirt, over black khakis and black combat boots. Frank tagged him as ex-military by his boots, his posture and his smiling, confident demeanor.

  “What is the meaning of barging into my company and my office like this?” Dunlap asked jumping out of the chair.

  Frank said nothing but walked straight up to his desk and slammed down the printout with Panther’s profile and his photo upfront. But he never looked down instead he keenly watched Dunlap’s face.

  “Mr. Dunlap, we want you to tell us where Mr. Travis Boone is,” Frank said.

  Larry Dunlap did a double take after looking at the photo which was not lost on Frank. Frank quickly took a glance at his companion and saw that even he had been flustered and was trying to get a glimpse of the photo. Frank knew then something was up. The man walked towards the table. Frank let him get close, pretending to be unaware of his presence, then deliberately acted as if he was suddenly startled.

  Frank shot his palm into the man’s chest and pushed him back.

  “Stand back,” Frank yelled putting his other hand on his pistol holster. Even Clara and Joe were jolted on the spot. The man gave Frank a bad look.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Larry said, “Greg is my bodyguard.”

  “No bodyguard is going to protect you from the law,” Frank said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Larry asked.

  “Recognize Adam?” Frank slammed down another printout with Adam’s photo on the first page. This time the color evaporated from Larry’s face but he recovered quickly.

  “Who the hell are these two?” he asked.

  “Adam is the truck driver that was murdered by Travis,” Frank said, “he was illegally driving gasoline tanker without hazmat endorsement. Have you been hiring unlicensed drivers to save money on your transportation costs?”

  Larry burst out with a laughter that was both an outburst of nervousness and an eruption of relief.

  “Is that what you think this is about?” Larry grinned, “saving nickels, dimes? Boy, let me tell you something. Hiring cheaper truck drivers would save me what…” he scratched his chin, “a million dollars a year. That may be a lot of money to you,” Larry said almost insultingly with the emphasis on the last word, “but I am worth a hundred times that…a hundred and twenty times that.”

  “Did you ever employ Adam?” Frank asked.

  “I told you I don’t know who Adam is, who Travis is, anything about the murder,” Larry put both of his hands down on the table and leaned forward, “now get the fuck out of my face and my office before I call my general counsel in here. And he has the governor’s cell on speed dial.”

  “I will see them to the outside, make sure they don’t wander around,” Greg said and followed Frank, Joe and Clara to the elevators. Greg stood close to Frank in the elevator and they stared each other down. Both were of similar height and of lean, solid build.

  “You think you are a tough guy?” Frank asked him.

  “You would have found that out if not for your badge and your uniform,” Greg replied smugly.

  “Ex-Army?” Frank asked.

  “Not just. Try Special Forces, sport,” Greg replied.

  “Frank here was…” Joe began to speak but Frank raised his hand to stop him. The elevator had reached the first floor. They walked out and Greg followed them a few paces back. Once they had got in the car, Frank looked in the rear view mirror and saw Greg was still smugly smiling at them.

  “Why did you stop me, Frank?” Joe asked, “Boy needed to learn you was no ordinary fighter either.”

  “Maybe he will find out down the road,” Frank said, “I am hungry, you Joe?”

  “Always up for good food,” Joe grinned.

  Frank looked at Clara as he drove the car out of the refinery complex and on to the town road. She was staring outside with her mouth closed and face glum.

  “You seem upset?” Frank asked.

  “You know…” she turned to look at his face in the mirror, “that was the most ridiculous interrogation I have seen. You basically gave away our leverage by telling him everything we knew and suspected.”

  “Au Contraire madam, it gave me the exact results I wanted,” Frank winked at her.

  “How so?”

  “Let’s stop at the deli we passed on the way. We will talk over lunch,” Frank replied.

  Not long after that, he turned in the parking lot of a small shopping plaza with half a dozen stores. One of them was a convenience store with a deli which they entered. />
  Meanwhile back at the refinery Larry Dunlap angrily scrolled through his cell phone till he found a number for a burner phone and placed a call.

  “What’s the code?” a voice asked.

  “Hell with the code!” Larry barked, “Get me the Major.”

  Frank, Clara and Joe picked up their food and sat down at a round corner table that was placed near to the end of the store. There were no customers near here and the rear door on one side and a couple of stacks of shrink wrapped pallets on the other afforded a measure of privacy. Frank had ordered himself a turkey sandwich, while Joe feasted on a footlong cheesesteak with a cranberry muffin for his side and large soda as his drink. Clara bought herself a box of salad and a cup of yogurt.

  “Now tell me,” Clara demanded from Frank.

  “Most detectives approach questioning in one of two ways,” Frank said, “either they build it up slowly, asking for name, address, details of that sort. Or they launch into accusations right away. First method gives ample time to the suspect to raise his guard against any slip of the tongue. The second method is equally fruitless. A guilty suspect is ready at all times to deny his crimes. He won’t hesitate to retort with a firm NO just as an innocent suspect would.”

  “You all but did that,” Clara said.

  “Not quite. I have a third method,” Frank said, “I didn’t accuse Larry outright of any crimes, that would only invite a harassment suit from his lawyer because we have no evidence linking him to anything. I like to throw them a curveball by asking questions that are not directly accusatory but whose answers would give away the game. Knowing Travis would prove nothing against Larry, nothing that held in court, but it would tell us he had a definite connection. These sudden, unexpected questions throw the suspects off balance and their reaction earlier confirmed that there is some shady link between Larry and Adam.”

  “And you also provoked his bodyguard deliberately?” Clara asked.

  “Wanted to get at his background,” Frank said.

  “Why does a rich oilman need a former commando as a bodyguard?” Clara asked, “unless he had a pro assassin like Panther after him. Maybe Travis is working for radical environmentalists angry at oil spills from Larry’s company.”

  “That would be something,” Frank laughed finishing his sandwich. He did not want to go after that angle, the case was already becoming convoluted as it was, but if the facts led there…

  Joe took two bites out of his cranberry muffin and then flung it in a trashcan.

  “Piece of crap that muffin,” Joe said.

  Frank and Joe got up but Clara sat there staring out the side window towards the refinery complex visible in the distance.

  “Let’s get back,” Frank said.

  “Frank, I am going to stay here tonight,” Clara said.

  “What?” Frank asked, “Where? And Why?”

  “There is a motel down the strip,” Clara said, “direct questioning isn’t the only method of getting answers. I have a few skills and their fence is a joke. We wouldn’t have used it even in our infiltration training.”

  “You can’t do that here, this is US soil,” Frank said, “I won’t allow that.”

  “Frank, you didn’t hear your own superintendent’s words clearly. I am working with you, not under you,” Clara replied, “but I was just suggesting. Actually I want to mingle around at the bar that the motel advertises, talk to the tanker drivers, see if something shakes loose.”

  “Why would they talk to you?” Frank asked.

  “I have some other skills too,” she smiled slyly.

  “She is going to act as a honey pot,” Joe said.

  “Thanks Joe, you pick up fast,” Clara replied sarcastically, “don’t be jealous detective Frank. I won’t go all the way,” she winked at Frank.

  Frank felt the heat rise inside him. She was beautiful to look at, curvy and fit, and she was opening up more making him feel excited.

  “Fine,” Frank said, “but if your theory proves correct and Panther shows up to take out Larry Dunlap, call me right away. Don’t confront him yourself.”

  Suddenly Clara became irritated and let out an exasperated sigh.

  “If he comes he is not going to stick around waiting for you to drive in,” Clara said, “it might be our only chance.”

  “Don’t take it then,” Frank said, “you have no idea how dangerous this Panther is.”

  Frank and Joe turned around and walked towards the door.

  “But I do, all too well,” Clara whispered after them. They did not see the single tear drop that ran down her cheek.

  “Frank, you are driving on Route 46,” Joe said.

  “I meant to,” Frank replied, “we are going to take the Parkway. Head down to Atlantic City. Swing by the headquarters later at night.”

  “280 is faster, shorter,” Joe replied.

  “Construction and accident,” Frank shook his head, “you weren’t paying attention to the traffic on the radio.”

  “You know I don’t like listening to Roth Griffin Show,” Joe said

  Frank laughed. Frank quiet enjoyed the show as Roth was generally known to speak on the side of the police but Joe hated Roth.

  “What we doing in AC?” Joe asked.

  “I want to see if we can get anything about Adam’s old days of cigarette smuggling,” Frank said, “Darnell mentioned he worked for AC bosses. Call Darnell before we reach AC to see if he can give us some names to talk to.”

  “Before we get on the Parkway, can we stop to grab something sweet,” Joe said, “that muffin was junk.”

  “I need my afternoon coffee too,” Frank replied.

  He pulled over at a coffee and donut shop a bit off the side of the road and Frank and Joe walked in to the counter.

  “What do you want officers?” the clerk asked.

  “Large iced coffee, two sugars, two creams,” Frank said.

  “Two donuts, chocolate and strawberry frosted,” Joe said.

  The clerk brought them their orders a couple minutes later. Frank took his coffee and turned around. Joe looked over the clerk’s shoulders – who was a recent Indian immigrant – and straight at the set of statues and figurines placed atop a ledge in the back wall. Joe squinted his eyes and pointed at them with his index finger.

  “What’s them gargoyles you wave your hands in front of?” Joe asked.

  Frank almost spat out his coffee. He grabbed Joe’s shoulder and pulled him towards him.

  “Let’s go Joe,” Frank said chuckling then added when they were outside, “that’s their Gods, Joe. You will get me in trouble with your comments.”

  “Just curious myself,” Joe grinned.

  They drove onwards and soon took the exit to the Parkway which was chock full of bumper to bumper traffic like usual.

  “It’s going to be a long ride down on the Garden State,” Frank sighed.

  “I don’t see any gardens either, just concrete and metal,” Joe remarked.

  The traffic moved down slowly. Frank was tempted to turn on the lights and the sirens but they weren’t responding to an emergency and their destination was long ways off.

  Roth Griffin was back on the radio and Frank turned the volume to high when he heard that the topic of discussion was the use of force by the police.

  “We are talking today, again, about the issue of police interaction with suspects, especially in urban communities, and I am opening the lines for calls,” Roth the radio show host said, “We have Mike from Tom’s River. Mike are you there, Mike, from Tom’s River, go ahead you are on air.”

  “Yes Roth, this is Mike,” the caller said, “I have heard you take police’s side in all matters. You never denounce any excessive use of force by the police.”

  “Now Mike, stop,” Roth said, “this just isn’t true. I have said there are always bad apples in a basket, but you can’t denounce the whole force because of it.”

  “I hate this guy,” Joe said.

  “He is talking on our side,” Frank said.


  “Yeah…” Joe let his words trail off and focused on eating.

  “You always say that, Roth,” Mike continued on air, “you always say that abstractly. But you never point to a concrete example when you faulted any police officer. You mention no specific incident where you speak for the citizen.”

  “Oh, you want a specific example?” Roth asked.

  “Yes, I do, a specific case where you raved against one of these bad apples,” Mike said.

  “Alright, I will give you one here, thanks for your call,” Roth said, “for the last caller and all of you out there listening today who disagree with me. There is this police officer whom I have called out by name in the past: Joe Marsh.”

  Joe’s ears perked up, he stopped chewing and looked at the radio. Frank darted his hand to change the radio station but Joe shot his own arm and stopped Frank.

  “No, Frank, no,” Joe said, “I need to hear this.”

  “You have a very common name, Joe. There could be fifty different…”

  “I don’t think so,” Joe replied.

  Frank sighed and let it be.

  “A couple years back he put out a Tweet that made me sick,” Roth said, “I have it saved, I am looking it up now.”

  “He is talking about me,” Joe said.

  Frank said nothing. He wished Roth would not find that tweet.

  “Here you go,” Roth said, “this is Joe Marsh’s Tweet I am reading: ‘

  No Lives Matter! We are all going to Die! Get over it Libtards!

  This is a bad apple right here whom I have called out on air. I have always said All Lives Matter. But Joe Marsh, he is a disgrace!”

  “Bastard!” Joe yelled and tossed his half eaten donut over his head into the back seat. He took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

  “Joe, what are you doing?” Frank asked rapidly looking back and forth at the windshield and at Joe.

  “Boy is going to learn respect today,” Joe replied.

  “Hello this is Roth Griffin Show…” the voice from other end of Joe’s call said.

  “Put me through on to air,” Joe said.

  “Sir, you have to wait your turn in…”

  “No, put me through right now, this is Joe Marsh!” Joe shouted.