by DL Barbur
I started trash picking right away. Each of the properties had one of those big commercial Dumpsters with the flip up lids. The good news was that most of the trash was paper and other office trash, so I wasn't digging through bags of week-old rotting food. The bad news, from a homeless guy’s perspective, was that I wasn't finding much worth taking. A few cans and bottles was the extent of it. At this rate, it would take me all day to get enough together for a 40 oz. bottle of Steel Reserve.
I fished through the detritus of modern American business, through receipts, invoices, even some personal papers a motivated criminal could have used for some fraud.
I hit a treasure trove of Snapple bottles in the last dumpster before Marshall's. If I ever had to make my living pulling cans, I'd remember that. I stashed them in the backpack.
Finally, I wandered into the parking lot of GM Art and Photography. I made myself keep the same slow, shuffling pace, made myself not look at the windows, not look at the van. Instead, I watched the windows out of the corner of my eye. The blinds didn't move, but I still had a feeling that he was in there, watching me.
I flipped up the lid to the Dumpster and almost blew it. Right there on top, lying on a bundle of shredded paper, right next to an empty ramen noodle container, was Heather's backpack. I knew it was hers the second I saw it: military surplus, dyed black. She'd decorated the edges with metal studs, pushing them through the fabric.
I almost reached out and snatched the bag, almost pulled it out and started rummaging through it right there. But a real homeless guy wouldn’t have done that. I shoved the bag aside, gave the rest of the dumpster a desultory rummaging. I hit the jack pot with six Tuborg empties, just the funky kind of beer some guy that owned a photography studio would drink. I made myself pluck each bottle out carefully and put it in my sack. Only then did I pick up the bag.
I slung the backpack over a shoulder and let the dumpster lid slam shut. I shuffled past the studio again, wondering if Marshall was watching. Would he come running out, desperate to get the bag back? Or would there be a sense of relief that one of the biggest pieces of evidence tying him to the murder was walking away with a bum, to wind up scattered and lost?
I walked away from the studio. I made myself keep up the act. Instead of making a bee-line for somewhere out of sight, I kept looking for cans, scoring another half dozen or so.
Finally, I was a couple of buildings away, out of sight of Marshall's place. I sat down beside a dumpster and took a couple of swigs out of a water bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. The ear piece to my phone was dangling from my shirt collar, under my coat. I pulled it up and pushed it into my ear, trying to make it look like I was scratching my ear. Probably nobody was watching, but you never knew. I reached in my pocket and hit the speed dial for Mandy's number. It barely rang before she picked it up.
"What did you find?"
"I think I've got her backpack," I said, trying to look like I was talking to myself. "Pick me up."
A light rain started to fall, so Mandy drove us to a commercial fueling station a half mile or so away. It had a big awning over the pumps. I didn't want my evidence getting wet.
I put the backpack on the trunk and started pulling stuff out. Most of the top layer was clothes, most of them black. They were the same size as what Heather would have worn. Mandy meticulously bagged and documented each piece as I pulled it out and laid it on the clean plastic sheet I'd pulled out of my trunk.
Finally, I hit pay dirt. I pulled out a black leather wallet with a chain attached and flipped it open. Heather's face stared at me from her driver's license.
Mandy whistled. "And there we have it," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "There we have it."
The bag told me that Marshall probably wasn't an experienced killer. He probably hadn't planned to kill Heather. Throwing the bag in the Dumpster of the studio where he worked was the sort of dumb mistake a hardened pro wouldn't make. That was fine with me. I was catching him early in his killing career, and his mistakes would just make putting him away easier.
I put the license on the trunk and Heather stared at us as we finished going through the bag. There wasn't much, makeup, more clothes. I found a glass pipe and a bag of marijuana, maybe a quarter ounce.
"Are we good with the discovery?" Mandy asked as we finished cataloging everything. "Because if we are, I think it's search warrant time."
I considered carefully before answering. I was a compulsive reader when it came to search and seizure related topics. I was always looking for ways to stretch the envelope when it came to getting evidence. There was plenty of case law saying that items in the trash were fair game, no warrant needed. Hell, one of the cases was even from a former Portland cop who wound up on the wrong side of the line and started taking meth.
"I think we're good to go," I said slowly. "You're right. It's search warrant time."
"Do we want to get somebody to come sit on the place while we get the warrant?"
The wheels started turning in my head. Somebody had to stay here in case Marshall was inside. I ran through the short list of people who I trusted to pull off the surveillance without blowing it. There was one person: me.
But the search warrant affidavit was a critical piece of the case. Most cops sucked at writing them. Mine were a work of art. I wasn't being arrogant when I said that. I was good at it and I knew it, so did many other people at the Bureau. That caused rank jealously among some. It made others seek me out and ask for help. I'd lost track of the times my phone rang in the middle of the night, asking for help writing a search warrant affidavit from another detective, or even a patrol guy. I always helped, writing and re-writing until the damn thing was bulletproof. I never got paid for it. I'd finally stumbled on the solution of having the other cops email me the affidavit at home. That way I could sit there in my boxer shorts and work on the damn thing.
But I couldn't very well sit there doing surveillance in my homeless guy persona and write a legal document at the same time.
Besides, I reminded myself, this was Mandy's case. Sort of. She had good chops. Her paperwork was organized, logical and meticulous. She had to learn how to do this stuff somehow. Might as well start now.
"Let's do this," I said. "I'll stay here and get rained on while you go get our warrant. Round up whoever you can get your hands on. Get some steady guys. Then we'll get inside and see what we find."
She looked a little surprised, then nodded. I came within an ace of telling her to bring the warrant affidavit to me before she took it to the judge, but that would have been tantamount to telling her I didn't think she could cut it. She was too good of a troop for that.
"And don't forget to call Lubbock at home and tell him what's going on." She nodded and took off, not quite squealing the tires. I really had to talk to her about her driving.
I made my way around to the field east of the photo studio. I nestled down in a clump of bushes with my bottle of water in its brown bag. I tried very hard to exude my bum vibe.
From here I was looking at the side of Marshall's building. If he went out the front, I'd see him. If he went out the back, I'd see him. As I settled in, two faces kept coming up in my mind, Marshall's and Heather's. I wondered how long I wanted to live like this, ordering my life around two kinds of people: the dead and the murderers.
I was struck by an urge to call Audrey. I could sit there and talk to her and it would probably look to an observer like I was a crazy old man talking to himself. I shook my head and shoved that thought away. It was out of character. I had no business mixing the personal up with an investigation. That was how people got killed.
I wiggled deeper into the bushes and settled into a long wait, forcing any other thoughts out of my mind. There would be time for all that when it was over.
Chapter Ten
Unlike most cops, I liked surveillance work. I could will myself into a relaxed state of watchfulness that was almost addictive. When I was like that, my mind was blank but watchful
at the same time. I'd learned to be that way hunting in the woods and fields of Tennessee.
I shifted slightly under my poncho. The cold ground was making my legs stiff and sore. I'd gotten better at waiting, but my body wasn't twelve years old anymore.
Four hours went by. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d just sat still for this long. I actually found it relaxing. Most of the time I was either busy working, or trying to squeeze in some time with Audrey. Maybe I should make a habit of this.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I reached in and hit the button to answer.
"Yeah.”
"I just got back from the judge’s house in Lake Oswego. We're good to go," Mandy said.
Damn. That was fast. "Ok. I'm going to walk out and meet you in the parking lot of that metal recycling place." I gathered up my bag and staggered off, still remembering to play my homeless guy role, conscious of the fact that somebody might be watching.
The farther I got from the photography studio, the more I let myself be Dent Miller, and the less I was the bum. Still, Dan Millan did a double take when he saw me walk up.
"Jesus, Dent. Your talents are wasted here. You should go be an actor and win an academy award."
"Yeah, but there's very little money in being a bum character actor," I said.
Tasha Jackson, a patrol officer I’d worked with a few times before, stood by her police car, a few feet away from Paul Abbot, one of the other detectives in the Major Crimes unit. Paul was a couple of years older than me, a short, squat man who was running to belly. He bought his suits off the rack at Sears and looked like something out of a Mickey Spillane novel, but he was a good cop. There was a blonde gangly kid standing next to him, dressed in a very nicely cut suit with spit-shined shoes.
Paul stuck out a hand, "Dent. Long time no see." We shook and he gestured at the kid. "My new partner, Tanner Reese."
I shook the kid's hand. "Meetcha."
I turned to Mandy. "Time's wasting. Why don't you brief everybody while I get ready?"
Mandy nodded and gathered everybody around in a semicircle. She laid out photos of Marshall, photos of the front and rear of the building, even a satellite photo of the building from above, all on the hood of her car. I listened as she gave a briefing that was as concise and detailed as any I'd heard before going on a mission in the Rangers. God, it was nice to be around professionals.
As she talked I pulled off my bum coat and opened the trunk of my car. First I put on my soft body armor. Incredible technology, it would stop just about any pistol or shotgun round, and the new stuff only weighed a few pounds. I put on a blue windbreaker with the words "Police" stenciled across the front and back in large, friendly letters.
Next, I pulled out a nylon gun case. The bureau had invested heavily in AR15 style carbines in recent years. They made sense. They were accurate, powerful, and you could teach anybody with normal hand-eye coordination how to shoot one in an afternoon. My favorite long gun though, was an ugly, battered Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun. Most of the finish was worn down to bare metal. The stock bore imprints of what looked suspiciously like a pair of front teeth on the end of the butt. Back in the old days, a good buttstroke to the face had been considered a perfectly acceptable way to subdue a suspect.
Mandy started talking about her plan to enter the building and my ears perked up. This was the part we had to get right.
"Me, Dent and Sergeant Millan are going to the front. We'll knock and announce, but if we don't get an answer, we're going to bust the door and go in. Officer Jackson and detectives Abbot and Reese will cover the back. Dent will have a long gun on the front door team; Officer Jackson will have a rifle at the back. Also, Sergeant Millan and Officer Jackson each have a Taser."
I nodded. Each team had a uniformed officer with a Taser. It was good to have someone in an instantly recognizable police uniform on each team. That way there wasn't any question later about the suspect saying he thought he was the victim of a home invasion or crap like that. The Tasers were good. If Marshall got froggy, we'd just zap him. Each team had a long gun in case this turned into a shootout. We carried pistols because it was convenient and discreet, but if you wanted to stop a fight you needed a shotgun or a rifle.
"Anybody have any questions?" Mandy looked around at the group. "Anybody have any suggestions? Anybody see any holes? Now's the time to speak up if you do."
I liked that. I gave her a big thumbs up. Nobody said anything.
"Ok," she said. "Let's go."
As we were getting in the car, I said "I'm surprised Lubbock didn't want to be here to supervise." I meant it as a joke. Lubbock was notorious for being somewhere else when the guns came out.
Mandy frowned. "I called him three times. He never answered. I left a message."
"Hold on a sec," I said. She stopped, with her hand on the gear selector. Behind us the other cops were lined up in their cars, raring to go. "You mean he doesn't know we're doing this?" By the Bureau's rules, this counted as a high-risk entry. It technically needed Lubbock's approval before we went forward.
"I called him three times. The first time was when I left you here, over four hours ago. I called him right before I got the warrant signed, then again right before we got here. He's never answered."
I thought fast. If we screwed around, the more likely we were to lose evidence. Homicide cases were solved quickly, or they weren't solved at all. Plus, not having Lubbock here was a bonus. There was a good chance he would dick around, holding up the operation while he tried to get the SWAT team to do the entry, or worse yet try to cook up some scheme to hand the case over to the FBI, the State Police or the Boy Scouts, anything to get him off the hook and shove the case into somebody else's lap.
Who had put him in charge of detectives? I wondered again. There were perfectly good community involvement jobs where Lubbock could while away his years until retirement without hurting somebody.
"Hell with him," I said. "If he wants to play with the big boys, he should answer his pages."
Mandy dropped the car into drive and laid ten feet of rubber in the parking lot. I sat in the passenger seat with the shotgun between my legs.
We slid to a stop in front of the studio. I had the car door open and was halfway out before the car even stopped, feeling that familiar calm awareness settle over me. In the next few minutes, I might shoot somebody, might get shot myself, or nothing at all might happen.
Mandy, Millan and I stacked up on the side of the door away from the windows. I carried the shotgun. Mandy and Millan carried the ram between them. It was a three-foot long piece of metal pipe filled with concrete, with handles on either side.
I knocked on the door by kicking on it three times. "Portland Police! We have a search warrant! Open the door! Do it now!" I counted to three under my breath.
"Ok," I said to Millan and Mandy. "Do it."
Mandy looked a little surprised, probably expected me to have waited longer, but I never did this any other way. Doors were cheap. Giving the other guy a chance to react could be expensive. They swung the ram perfectly and the door jamb splintered open. All three hinges let go at once and the door simply fell inward, a perfect score on the door removal chart. They tossed the ram to the ground outside, and we were in.
The trick to something like this was to see everything at once, while focusing on the tiny details. We moved through the door quickly. Doorways were danger zones, called "fatal funnels," because your bad guy could be anywhere in the room, the wide end of the funnel, but you had to come through the opening, the narrow end of the funnel. Cops died in doorways.
But not today. We moved through the room, following the walls, the lights under our guns lit the place up beautifully.
We flowed through the room quickly, moving smoothly, not in the jerky, spasmodic movements they always showed on TV. Every space a person could possibly hide in, behind, or under got a quick look.
The waiting room was small, with a threadbare couch under the front window, facing a sho
rt counter with a cash register. I reached down to pull the couch away from the wall with one hand so I could shine my light behind it. A puff of dust came up from the fabric. The magazines on the waiting table were years old. The whole place had an air of disuse.
Millan and Mandy cleared behind the counter. "Clear," Millan said softly.
I nodded. "Clear." Unlike the movies, or a TV show, we kept our voices low instead of screaming. If there was a bad guy inside, he undoubtedly knew we were there, but there was no sense in broadcasting our exact position. Bullets went through walls.
There was a wooden interior door next to the register. We all stacked up beside it, and Dan tried the knob gently. It turned so he pushed it inward, just hard enough so it would have smashed anybody hiding on the other side in the face, but not hard enough that it hit the wall and bounced closed again.
This place was bigger than it looked from the outside. The door opened onto a long narrow hallway, about fifty feet long. There were three doors on the right, two more on the left, not counting the one we'd just come through. At the end of the hall was the back door, where the other cops would be waiting for anybody trying to escape.
The walls were unfinished drywall, taped but not painted. The floor was bare concrete. The walls didn't go all the way up. Obviously the place was designed for a dropped ceiling that hadn't been installed yet. Bare light fixtures hung down from above.
The closest doorway, the one to the right, was closed, but from behind it I heard the hiss of water running, either a shower or a sink. I smiled. Would we get lucky enough to catch the guy in the shower?
Millan turned to me, pointed his fingers at his eyes, then down to the end of the hallway. He pointed at himself and Mandy, then to the doors. I nodded back.
He and Mandy would search the rooms while I covered the hallway with my shotgun. You could only get so many cops in a room pointing guns around before they started pointing them at each other. Even though it was sawed off, the shotgun could be a liability in tight quarters. It was made for the hallway though. By the time a blast of buckshot made it to the end of the hall, the pattern would have expanded to a circle about ten inches across. The exit door was steel, and the back wall of the building was cinder block, so if I had to zap somebody I was confident that the buckshot wouldn't exit the building and endanger the guys standing out back.