November
13, 1987:
Jewels
of sparkling light below Camino Cielo were coming alive in that hour before
dusk slips into its black sheath of the night. The sunset’s clicking and
buzzing nocturnal solace was interrupted by the rattling angry buzzing approach
of dirt bikes a couple of hairpins from the Painted Cave junction. Three riders
came upon the taxicab waiting at a turnout; its motor running; drivers side
rear door open. Its headlights lit up an old pine that stood tall over a
turn-out near the junction of Painted Cave Road and Camino Cielo. The driver of
the taxi was behind the wheel. He wasn’t waiting for a fare. He wasn’t waiting
for anything at all.
One
of the kids shouted, “Hey, look… the driver’s sleeping. You think he’ll wake-up
if we…”. He could see a wad of cash bulging out of the driver’s shirt pocket,
“He’s not sleeping, Jason.” He opened the driver’s door and, reaching over the
steering column, he shut off the engine.
The
hour was magic between the dark of night and before the first light from Ryan’s
low-rent studio apartment on the second floor on Foothill Road. The coffee
machine began its morning drip, pop, fizzle grumble set for five AM. He’d been
at the scene of the taxi cab past midnight. These calls rarely happen at one’s
convenience. Still dark outside, he made the single bed, went to his
kitchenette, and poured a mug of coffee. Black, and filled to the brim, he took
the mug to his desk in the corner under the window that, from the second floor
facing Southwest, allowed dawn to decorate his view on one side. It wasn’t so
dreary for him. When the divorce papers were signed, he’d reflected
philosophically, “We hardly knew each other anyway.” After all, they were no
kids. His passion was in his work and his only vice had once been Cuban cigars.
It hurt him worse than the divorce when the cardiologist insisted he quit
smoking. The desk was the only piece of furniture besides a dresser and the
bed. He raised his cup to the picture of a dark skinned face of a woman on his
desk, “To you, Imelda, the hair of the dog.”
Narcotic/Vice
Detective, Ryan, opened a folder that contained several polaroids he’d snapped
the night before and played back the interview of the kids on a micro cassette.
The photos were of the taxi cab and close-ups of the driver, head slumped over
the wheel. They were of Douglas Perry… his most reliable Confidential
Informant. He pinned the pictures to the corkboard above the desk. There were
others too. The untrained eye might think some were accidents… camera went off…
shots of the ground. But closer scrutiny showed they were of dirt bike tracks,
foot impressions in the gravel, and car tire tracks.
The
tinny voices of all three kids from the recorder told the same story of riding
up on dirt bikes when they found the cab parked in a turnout on Camino Cielo. None
said anything about the wad of cash in the driver’s pocket and none was found
anywhere else on the body or in the cab. Ryan suspected it was probably robbery
and nothing about it looked like suicide. He only had to drive up San Marcos
Pass to Camino Cielo from his place again after he finished his second cup of
coffee… about ten minutes. The body was still pliable by the time Ryan saw it
taken away in the meat wagon before midnight. He’d been around corpses long
enough to know it takes two or three hours for rigor mortis to set in.
He
ripped the dry-cleaners’ wrapper off one of four dark blue sports jackets,
chose from a selection of identical light blue shirts, and a clip-on striped, grey,
blue and white tie. He pulled up his chino slacks over stout, muscled, legs
that spoke of years of roadwork training for the ring. He stretched his belt to
the last notch over a paunch from lack of exercise. His exercise was restricted
to light cardio workouts on the treadmill… doctor’s orders to go light. He drove
back up to the crime scene at sunrise in his blue 1970 Chevy Caprice. Turning
right off San Marcos, a squad car passed him going the other way off Camino
Cielo. Two City Police cars were parked behind a flatbed tow truck so he parked
on the other side of the road. The driver at the winch was loading the taxi while
the rookie, Rogers, clipboard in hand, acted the supervisor of the whole
operation while three other uniforms stood back and watched.
“Who
ordered it towed?” Ryan barked.
“Take
it easy, Ryan. What’s the big deal? It’s been here where you left it last night.”
Ryan’s
eyes scoured the dirt within the yellow crime scene tape. A set of tire tracks were scuffed up in the
dirt in front of the cab and two different shoe sizes were in the gravel next
to where the rear door had been. He had snaps of the tire tracks but hadn’t
noticed footprints the night before or he would have snapped some pics.
Frustrated he asked, “What’s the use of this tape if you’re letting a herd of
buffalo traipse through it?”
“Come
on Ryan you know it was self-inflicted.”
“No
prints anywhere on the car?”
“Clean.”
Ryan
nodded towards the tire tracks, “Homicide’s been here? I don’t suppose plaster
casts were taken of these before you stepped all over them?”
“Yep
to one and Nope to two.” Rogers’s made no attempt to cover his annoyance at
being questioned by this old fart.
Ryan
drew out a tape measure next to the foot prints and snapped a few more shots from
the cheap Polaroid One-Step 600 he carried with him to every crime scene. He could
see that there was little use in hanging around much longer. The new Coroner’s
Office had moved down the hill next to the County Sheriff less than a mile from
his place. He needed to run things by someone whose judgment could be trusted.
“Let’s see what the coroner has by now. Ride with me Rogers, you might learn a
thing or two.”
Almost
at the junction of San Marcos Road, they had to pull over to the side to let
three lit up, lights flashing County Sheriff cars speed towards the scene.
Rogers said, “Right-on. We’re off the case.”
Forensic
Pathologist, Doctor Kate Williams, was about sixty and had always looked that
age as far back as Ryan knew her. She didn’t look any older, nor any younger,
as the years passed.
They
stood next to the cadaver while she pointed out the wound in the back of his
head, “You’re early Ryan. I haven’t cut him open yet. No exit wound. Probably a
hollow point .22 caliber. When I crack open this coconut, I’ll find it likely
took out three quarters of his brain. It’s not speculation, I’m thinking this
one’s a homicide.”
Ryan
scratched his chin, “No evidence of a struggle at the scene. No cash on the
driver… could have been robbery or one of the kids dirt-grabbed it. We have the
weapon. Twenty-two caliber revolver. Wiped clean. Nine round cylinder. One
emptied cartridge… short casings. Ballistics is testing it. You’ll find it
matches the empty in the cylinder.”
“I
would say so if I were to say so,” she quipped. As always she came to few
conclusions until all the evidence was taken into account.
Ryan
and Dr. Williams were quiet. Ryan said under breath, “There were two of them in
the back seat.”
“Why
do you say that?” Rogers asked.
“Two
sets of shoes in the gravel, if you bothered to look.”
Out
of the blue, Rogers said, “His friend, Craszhinski was thrown in jail last
night. We could’ve talk to him there but that Gook Whore of yours bailed him
out.”
Ryan
thought Rogers was a punk and let the insult slide but the kid’s point was
plausible. But Ryan had been around long enough to recognize a bum steer. He
played along anyway, “You got something there, Rogers?”
“Maybe
Craszhinski’s her pimp and Perry owed… Sides, I read about that Ed Kemper dude.
He made friends with a Santa Cruz cop while he dined on co-eds.”
“…
quite a stretch there, sleuth.” Williams interrupted. “I don’t deal in
speculation.”
Ryan
had seen enough, “Come with me, Rogers, let’s see if his boss can shine any
light on this.”
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