The Tipsy Gull, page 4
part #1 of Danny Barbosa Series
“I wrote a follow-up report and forwarded it to both the Fraud unit and Narcotics.” Ben looked up from his desk. “The apartment manager thinks one of the security guards slipped Hound a pass key and let him use the flat in exchange for a share of the profit from the sales.”
“Well, that’d explain the lack of furnishings.” Danny took a sip of coffee.
“The preliminary ID on Hound is Jerald Wilson, but since this is a homicide, Chief wants the hard copies sent to NCIC before we go public with the identity. I already sent them in, but it’ll be a couple of days.”
Danny nodded and glanced at three large boxes in the corner of the office. “I’m thinking about reviewing everything from the previous murders that you and Greer worked on last year.”
“Perfect. A fresh set of eyes should help.”
A year ago, three men had been murdered over a two-month span. They all had lived in the downtown area.
Victim one—Jimmy Stevenson. Witnesses had placed him at The Liquor Cabinet the night he’d been killed. The bartender said Stevenson bought a Hispanic woman a drink and sat next to her for about half an hour. She was five-feet four inches tall, average build, and had black wavy hair. She appeared to be in her late twenties and carried a yellow and blue Nike backpack. The bartender stated she only spoke Spanish with broken English mixed in. Another witness had seen the woman arrive in a red, newer model two-door sports coupe. However, nobody noticed Stevenson, or the woman leave. She was listed as a person of interest.
Danny read over all the reports, reviewing witness statements and lab reports. He stood up to stretch, tired mentally and physically. Damn these long hours. I could use a cold beer right now. He rubbed his tired eyes and cracked his neck before reviewing the next case.
The second victim, Stan Miles, had been found in his downtown apartment in the same condition as the first—tied up and stabbed over thirty times. The only difference here, nobody had seen him the previous night or knew where he hung out. He had been a professor at the University of California, San Diego and had been dead for several days before his body was found. The condition of the body and the notes tied the two crimes together. Danny picked up a copy of the note. “Who writes this neat?”
Ben stood and closed the office door, then grabbed a sheet of paper off the printer. Danny raised his eyebrows.
“I should have mentioned this to you before.” Ben waved the paper. “I had Pearl’s sister create a suspect profile after Tolliver was murdered last year.”
“Your wife’s sister, who is she?”
“Her name’s Opal and she’s Psych under graduate. Pearl kind of insisted on it and to be honest, I thought it couldn’t hurt.”
“Okay, well, what’d she come up with?” Danny set his cup down and Ben handed him the paper. Danny read it out loud. “The suspect falls under the FBI’s Organized Offender category, which meant he/she was careful not to leave evidence behind and planned the murders carefully. Well shit, I could have told you that.”
Ben chuckled. “There’s more.”
Opal profiled their suspect as: Psychopathic nature but knows the socially upheld standards of right from wrong. Likely, struggles to maintain cohabitation or close relationships. Educated. Practiced penmanship. Fixated on justice and has egocentric motivation to place her at the head of that mechanism. And lastly, probable sexual assault victim.
“Practiced penmanship.” Danny’s blue-eyes widened. “You mean Opal knows about the notes?”
“I’ll take the fall if need be.” Ben scratched his cheek.
Danny waved it off. “I trust your judgment. So, what’d she mean by that?”
“Opal said nobody could write that neat without repetition. My pops told me when he attended the police academy, they had to re-write reports over and over until the writing was perfect.”
“Yeah, I remember one of the instructors mentioning that. Glad we have computers now.” Danny smiled. “You think the suspect’s a cop?”
“Not necessarily, but somewhere in her past, she learned to write perfect, block letters.”
Danny handed the paper back to Ben.
Ben said, “Opal says the reason she strips the victim and ties them up is symbolic of her childhood. Naked and helpless while a man rapes her. She’s an adult now and something triggers something inside her and she kills.”
“Interesting theory, but what’s the link?” Danny asked. The victims were similar enough in age and appearance but didn’t seem like a close enough match to specifically remind her of somebody. They ranged from age thirty-six to forty-two. The shortest, Stevenson, stood five-ten, while the third victim had been measured at six-feet, one-inch. Their weight varied by thirty pounds. Three had brown eyes, one had green. Two had black hair, two brown.
“Not sure, but we need to pinpoint it soon before we have another victim.”
Danny read the note again:
EGO IUDICABO TE AD MORTEM.
LUDEX. IUDICES. CARNIFICE INTERNUNTIO.
SO MUCH BLOOD!
The Chameleon
The first two Latin sentences had been translated to mean ‘I sentence you to die’ and ‘Judge, jury, and executioner’. Ben and Greer’s theory on the third line had been it referenced the crime scene. Danny had agreed with that after seeing the crime scene in person. However, after reading the profile, he suggested, “Perhaps, ‘so much blood’ is a reference to her being molested for the first time?”
“Hmm, that could be,” Ben said. “If Opal’s theory is correct, such a traumatic event would have such a strong effect on the victim, it’d be something she’d remember.”
“Definitely,” Danny said. “So, what’d she say about the signature?”
“Same as we came up with. It matches her ability to blend in. Nobody could get a clear enough description or report seeing her at any of the crime scenes.”
“That reminds me, Tiny and Lisa said they’ll forward the reports later, but no promising leads.”
“See, it’s always the same. Even the woman Blanche saw in the elevator doesn’t match our suspect’s age or race,” Ben said.
Danny nodded. Since there had been no similar murders for almost a year, they had believed the suspect was no longer in the area. He took a late lunch and when he returned, set about unpacking the box of stuff in his desk drawer. He put the usual office supplies in the long drawer on top and began to pull out the rest of the items. Relief flooded him when he pulled out a card Tala had given him when they first met. With a smile, he re-read it for the umpteenth time.
“Whatcha got there, partner?”
Danny looked up. “When I first met Tala, I asked her what her name meant, and she replied ‘Goddess of the Stars’. Then she asked me what my name meant. Heck, I had no idea.” Danny handed the card to Ben. “So, on my last day of therapy, she gave me a bouquet of flowers and this card on the meaning of my name.”
Ben read the card out loud. “You are strong in material matters, determined and stubborn…At times you may appear too stubborn and overly critical to others, but your practical approach to life and productivity makes you one of the most beneficent members of community. Stubborn, yep, that sounds like you.”
Danny shook his head and put his hand out.
“Uh, can I read what she wrote, too?” Ben’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Ben read the rest. “Now you know your name meaning, Danny. You are done with treatment and I will miss you much. You are my first friend in the States and make me smile every day. Good luck in the enefowl. Take care always.
Your friend,
Tala (your PT)
“Wow, that’s sweet. Hey, what’s enefowl mean?” Ben asked as he returned the card to Danny.
“That’s NFL. It used to be my selling point when I tried to pick up on women.”
Ben laughed. “Yeah, looks like you made the right choice back then. Tala’s a keeper.”
Danny put the card in his new desk drawer, recalling how he used to tease her about signing her name since she was the only Tala he’d ever met to this day. Buoyed by the card, he pulled out the rest of the items in the box: A team photo of their bowling team at the Nationals in Reno. A Sea World framed-photo of his family, a Chargers wallet-sized schedule, John Grisham’s novel-Gray Mountain, a five-dollar bill, and three empty Jack Daniels miniatures. He pocketed the cash and tossed the empty shots into the waste basket, looking up when Ben cleared his throat. “What? Those weren’t even mine.”
After the break, Danny reviewed the third homicide committed by the Slayer last year. Frankie Tolliver. Hound’s murder came on the one-year anniversary of Tolliver’s. Perhaps the suspect had been in custody or had moved out of the area and now returned. Danny jotted down notes to check for any recent inmate releases and any murders with the same MO in other areas.
The investigation determined Tolliver had a few drinks at Los Gatos Mexican Bar and Grill the night he’d been killed. Like Stevenson, he’d been seen with a Hispanic woman. The main witness was the bartender, Rudy. The woman had identified herself to him as Carmelita and spoke mostly Spanish with broken English mixed in. A few other customers corroborated his statement. Rudy admitted he didn’t check her ID but said she looked to be about thirty years old. After a couple of drinks, Tolliver and Carmelita left the bar.
The most significant difference between Tolliver and the first two victims was that he hadn’t been tied up. He also had defensive wounds on both hands and three of his fingertips on the right hand had been cut off and taken. His cause of death had been a slash to the throat, and while his body still had roughly thirty stab wounds to the abdomen, the autopsy confirmed these were post mortem, and that he had the same amount of Ketamine in his system as the other two. Evidently, he’d still been alert enough to try and defend himself. Unfortunately, he’d still been overpowered and killed. Danny’s SMS alerted him to a text.
Paul: I have an opening on my team. Call me later.
Danny was an avid bowler and when he worked with Paul discovered it was something they had in common. A close friendship had been forged. He really wanted to bowl again but didn’t think he’d have time with this new case. He texted Paul that he could sub once in a while but wasn’t ready to commit. Thinking about bowling reminded him of his mentor, Steve Tanner. Fifteen years ago, he’d introduced Danny to bowling and had given him lessons. They had become friends until Danny had been involved in a shooting while working for Fresno PD. Tanner was part of the reason he no longer worked there. He sighed.
Hawthorne walked into the office, sat backwards on a chair next to their desks, and glanced about. “You guys know this isn’t permanent, right?”
Danny followed his gaze to the Chargers calendar, poster of USC head cheerleader ‘Jenny’, and Ben’s house plants on the shelves. Danny swiveled in his chair and his hand stopped on the refrigerator door. “Want a beer, boss?”
Hawthorne snorted. “Chief’s going to reassign your other active cases to Hakai and Davis. Now that there’s been another murder, the mayor’s coming down hard on him.”
Ben nodded.
“Gather whatever you’ve compiled so far and bring it to my office before the end of the day.” He winked at Danny. “I’ll take one at five.”
Hawthorne walked out and two seconds later stuck his head back in. “And put that poster behind the door for Christ’s sake.”
CHAPTER 6
After a couple of days, NCIC confirmed the hard copy of Hound’s fingerprints did belong to Jerry P. Wilson, thirty-eight years of age. The coroner notified ‘next of kin’, and the department released a photo of Wilson, asking anyone with any information on his whereabouts Friday, August 5th to come forward. The Department received a flood of calls from acquaintances that had seen him at Moonshine Flats. A team of interviewers contacted twenty-eight witnesses.
Chin propped upon his elbow, Danny reviewed the follow-up reports. He yawned and grabbed a Coke out of the mini-fridge. The thought of Jack Daniels fluttered into his mind. He’d have to wait until he got home and sighed.
“Hang in there, partner. I know you’d rather be out there than cooped in here,” Ben said.
Danny set the can down. “You know, all these sightings of Hound are with a tall blonde. There’s no mention of anyone matching Carmelita.”
“Yep. I’m finding the same thing.” Ben set a report down. “But not one person reported seeing him leave with her or recalled ever seeing her before.”
“Nobody ever sees shit, anymore.” Danny tossed his pen down on the desk and leaned back. “What’s it matter anyway. Whoever this blonde is, she’s not our suspect.”
“Well, we could never tie Carmelita to the other crime-scenes. For all we know, she could have been just another face, while this blonde was the killer all along.” Ben ran his hands through his thinning hair.
“True, but based on the reports I read, the first killer was a ghost. The other two bars were small with just a few customers.” Danny took another sip of his soda. “This time, she’s at a packed club.”
Ben nodded. “You’re right, it makes no sense.”
Danny furrowed his brow. “What if the Chameleon paid someone to be seen with Hound, to throw us off?”
“Well if that’s the case, we’ll be finding a dead blonde sometime soon. The Chameleon’s not going to let a potential witness live.”
Ben opened up a tri-pod with a white board. He added Wilson’s name and under it wrote descriptions of the person at Moonshine Flats: Female. Five- ten. Long, straight, blonde hair. Blue eyes. Thin. Early twenties. He paused. “What else you got?”
“Southern accent. Dressed in jeans with a white blouse and white tennis shoes.” He looked down at his notes. “A couple of people heard him call her Gnomes.”
Ben wrote it down and added. “I had a few that described her bag, too. Let me see.” He grabbed his notes. “A backpack-type, western style, brown leather purse with turquoise trim and rhinestone studs.”
“Hey wait a minute. That sounds like the bag Blanche described.” Danny rifled through the reports until he came to his. “Let’s see…here it is, ‘brown leather pack with turquoise flaps.’ That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No, but who was the woman in the elevator? Her description doesn’t match the blonde.”
Danny scratched his cheek. “Maybe our killer in disguise? That would also explain the signature, ‘The Chameleon’. They change their appearance, right?”
“Yeah, but the blonde was almost five-ten and wearing tennis shoes. The woman in the elevator was…” Ben paused.
Danny looked back down at his report. “Blanche stated five-four. That would match Carmelita’s height, but this girl was Caucasian and ten years younger.”
“But still sounds like the same purse.” Ben raised a brow. “That’s something.”
“This is making my head hurt.”
Ben chuckled and they continued to review the reports.
“Check this out.” Danny tapped one of the reports. “The woman in apartment 517 said she knocked on Hound’s door Friday around midnight. Nobody answered, but she heard classical music from inside the apartment.”
“I don’t remember seeing a sound system.” Ben looked up.
“No, there wasn’t, unless it was from his cell phone or TV.”
“We had the same report from the Stevenson murder—classical music coming from the apartment. That could be significant. We’ll re-contact friends see if that was Hound’s taste in music.”
Danny scrolled a reminder. “And I think we should re-interview that Stevenson witness.”
“Yep, good idea.”
Danny thrummed his fingers on the desk while looking over more reports. “I see two follow-ups on an attempt to interview the bouncer, but he refused to cooperate. We need to contact him again.”
“Like you said, we tried, but he refused to answer any questions. Says he doesn’t like cops.”
“Bullshit! I’ll make him talk,” Danny spat.
Ben shook his head. “Based on the reports, he’s huge. You’ll just lose your temper and somebody will get hurt.”
Danny cracked his knuckles. “Not if he co-operates, he won’t.”
He continued to review statements when Ben interrupted. “One of the guys got the bouncers name and DOB from the manager of the bar. It’s Nick Serrato, and I just finished a little background check on him.”
Danny repeated the name with his brow furrowed. “Sounds familiar. What’d you find out?”
“Check it out.”
Danny came around his desk and read Ben’s monitor. “Well I’ll be damned. I guess I’ll go pay Nick a visit.”
Danny took his Camaro since it looked less official. Following his GPS, he headed to Logan Heights. Being further inland, the air lacked the ocean breeze. Danny turned on his air conditioner and cranked up the radio. “I Ran” by A Flock of Seagulls, was playing. In this neighborhood, the older homes were small and run down, yards overgrown with weeds. Several had “For Sale” signs. His mind wandered to buying a house. Tala already contacted a realtor and perhaps this weekend, they could look at homes. He grimaced at the neighborhood and said out loud. “Not these though.”
Rusted cars, up on jacks, dotted the driveways. Something for tweakers to work on at night. Danny slowed to a crawl. The GPS announced he’d reached his destination, but he couldn’t locate the house number. A group of boys rode past on bicycles. He exited the Camaro and looked around. He would ask the kids if they came back around. On cue, the boys turned the corner, heading his way, and Danny motioned them to stop.
“Hey cop, you gonna shoot somebody?” one of the boys asked.
Great, even in my Camaro, I’m recognized. “No, I just need to talk. Any of you guys know Nick Serrato?”
They shook their heads no, but a couple of them looked down, and one boy gave a slight nod to another.
“Come on, gimme a break, guys.” Danny spread his arms out.
