R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 03 - Reckoning (3 page)

Our profiler was still working on his theory for the posing of the corpses to recreate the crime scenes of infamous killings. And the Judas fixation—where they intersected.

I had my own theories.

The radio squawked out of the darkness, startling me.

“Car seven-seven, this is Dispatch, over.”

I picked up the transmitter. “Seven-seven, over.”

“Hostage suicide situation at Clawson and Spear. Request you respond, over.”

“Mary, I’m a homicide detective. I work with them after they’re dead.”

“Guy’s got his little girl in the house and is asking for you specifically, Mac. Suspect’s name is Gerry Kelp.”

“Ten-four. Show seven-seven responding. Over.”

It became clearer to me what was happening on the drive over and the new theories in my head did not make me feel better. The Homicide Unit—i.e.
me
, in that particular case
—
had been called in by the Special Tactics division of the DPD, not only because the hostage-taker had been
our
suspect, but mostly because they knew it was me who’d gotten through to him; me who had buddied up enough to get him close to talking.

They also knew it was me who blew it.

During the suspect’s interview, Manny dug into his increasingly thinning skin. Bad cop. I came in a bit later and befriended the guy. It was standard technique. I’d studied his file, found some similarities between him and me—I put myself in his shoes. If
I
was sweating a homicide in an interview room, who would I want as my friend? So I became that guy. I’m not saying I am better than most, but when it comes to working over the lowlifes of my city, I admit I do take a particular pleasure in rooting out their weaknesses and exploiting them.

Again, it was procedure. I sometimes relished it more than the others and I’ll leave it at that.

Gerry Kelp was one of those rare breed of killers. Not flashy, and not stupid exactly, but so completely inept that he made our work much easier than it could have been.

As I mentioned, I caught the case with my partner, Manny Rodriguez. Manny was the new guy when my previous partner and father figure, Ned Burke, died of a heart attack over a decade back. I liked Manny a lot, and the idea that I had, over the years, become a father figure to him had not escaped me.

Not that I needed the extra responsibility but there were not enough good men in the department or the world. Anything I could do, well, it was part of the duty as far as I was concerned. As a detective and as a human being. And Manny was easy; the boy had gotten the genetics. He came from a tough background but had been raised never to let it consume him. Regardless of the pressures he’d faced. Shaming, beatings, and promises of death were just a few of the hardships he overcame to become a cop. And the surviving made him the man he was—a protector of the city where he was raised; a hero in the eyes of those who took pride in the inherent good still left in their neighborhoods.

When we arrived at the scene, the crime looked to be one of method rather than compassion. A young woman in her mid-thirties was found facedown on her own sofa. The cause of death was clearly strangulation, confirmed by our Forensics Chief Investigator, Margaret Duchamp, and also Dr. Benjamin Hollis, the Denver County Medical Examiner.

There was little evidence of a struggle, and the bruising around the victim’s throat suggested the killer had come at her from behind. (An approach consistent with criminal intent and forethought.) The scene also appeared to have been vacuumed—literally picked clean of hairs, fibers, and any other trace evidence. Which would have made proving guilt incredibly difficult had the perp not experienced a total mental meltdown and disposed of the vacuum bag in the trash bin behind the house in the alley. That and the used condom in the master bathroom trash basket, slathered in his near-dry semen.

Problem was, Kelp lived next door to the victim. Neighbor, not boyfriend. So he had not originally been at the top of our list. He was questioned in the initial canvas and told one of the uniforms that he heard some noises but assumed it was amorous in nature. He described a fiancé—gave us a detailed description: how often he came by, where he worked. He practically drew a sketch for Cindy Wu, our resident artist. Mentioned that he
had
heard a couple of fights and that the police had been involved more than once.

I looked the victim’s fiancé up in the system and he had a pretty long list of prior arrests for domestic disturbance and assault, three with the current victim, several others with women who may have been previous lovers.

We talked to the fiancé that same day. He had a strong alibi; a suspect-buster right there, and I don’t say that like an overzealous prosecutor, wanting the suspect to be guilty. I believed there was a fundamental problem within the borders of the justice system; prosecutors looking at cases from a “win and loss record” perspective. I understood why we didn’t open a case until we had enough evidence to prove it. However, the ultimate goal should always be to prosecute and convict the
guilty
party; not just the person with the best odds at putting a check in the win column.

I’d seen prosecutors withhold evidence, or at least attempt to covertly suppress it, when it basically exonerated the accused. I’d seen it more resemble a game of chess than a criminal proceeding. My belief was you wanted the person—or persons—who committed the crime behind bars. Too many DAs were professionally and politically-motivated and needed to manipulate the balance sheets in constructing a favorable résumé.

So what I meant by “suspect-buster” was that it usually cleared the suspect, which was actually a good thing if the suspect was
innocent
—the solid alibi in most cases meant the suspect wasn’t guilty. Most criminals weren’t masterminds, setting up elaborate fake alibis. If the guy was at work, and the supervisor witnessed such, it was more than likely true.

Kelp moved up to suspect number one in my mind. He stunk of
wrong
. Too helpful. Knew too much. He went way past “willing to share” and into megalomaniac territory. Confident he could dance his cha-cha around the police in circles and the flatfoots would never be the wiser.

My lieutenant—Elias Shackleford—did not agree. I wouldn’t say he was being obtuse, but he was definitely stepping on my toes. And in my zeal to prove my commander wrong—in my own version of “making the case a game”—I tipped our hand.

During questioning in our station house, I simply allowed Kelp to see my suspicions. I dropped the façade for a moment. I wasn’t really his buddy; I had nothing in common with him, and he figured it in less than a second of my own arrogance. Witnessed my own suspicions firsthand. And hell, they weren’t suspicions—I was convinced the weird little bastard did it. And I let him see that. Bye-bye to any chance of a confession.

We couldn’t hold him. No matter how certain I was regarding his guilt; it was going to take time to build the DNA case proving it. We lacked motive, too—other than him being a creep, and the neighbor, we hardly even had circumstantial evidence. We could show opportunity since his alibi was weak—home alone—but that was all we had without his DNA.  No judge was going to grant us a warrant to violate his person or residence without something more solid on which to base our allegation of his guilt. I, of course, felt they should add fucked up demeanor and a sinister smile to the list of potential motives but that wasn’t happening until we arrived at a slightly more dystopian future.

When completed, our case would likely be a strong one. We had plenty of physical evidence; we only needed a sample to match against Kelp. But we needed motive, too. Being the neighbor gave him plenty of opportunity but why did he want her dead? Detective work isn’t always as glamorous as portrayed on the boob tube. The lawyers had to dance their dance and the court had to maintain its reputation as objective, the pretense being that we’d all sleep a little better if we knew people were presumed innocent
first
(but knowing full goddamned well most people wouldn’t mind a little stepping on the rights of cretins if it meant making the city a safer place for
truly
innocent people to live). As the detective role in this drama, I’d see to it that we found what was required and it would take time.

I’d seen the understanding in the suspect’s eyes when he walked away. I wrongly assumed this meant the hunt was on. Catch me if you can, copper. I saw it every time we sent a suspect home that had a clue about how the system worked. He knew exactly why we couldn’t hold him and he thought it was prime time funny. Or at least that was what I thought. What it meant instead? Kelp recognized his fate. He might have even remembered his own mistakes.

He definitely had no plans to do prison time. It happened. Some criminals, they knew they couldn’t do time. Maybe they’d been in the joint and they knew it was not half as luxurious or even tolerable as the public might think. Or it happened often that, when cornered, some humans realized they were simply tired of life and wanted to end theirs splashed across the local news.

Either way, I misread our killer. I thought he was taunting us. He was, plain and simple, inept and scared. And he wasn’t going to be coming back to the station house, much less any courtroom or behind any bars.

“Let me talk to him,” I asked Len Brighton, the senior S.W.A.T. negotiator after I arrived.

“This one’s ours, Mac. You know that. You’ve been called in as a consultant only. You’ve met the guy. Period.”

“Everyone here knows I fucked up,” I said. “I showed him our hand. He’s playing the cards I handed to him. Now tell me he hasn’t asked for me. Go ahead, look me in the eyes and tell me this psycho fuck did not
demand
I be brought here. How long before he has you put me on the phone anyway, Len?”

Brighton didn’t answer me verbally but he dropped his stare to his boots.

“You made the call,” I told him. “You called me in.”

“Not me. My supervisor.” Brighton considered the situation. Clearly his boss had left the ultimate decision with him, but no cop needed innocent blood on his hands. Brighton gave me the cell.

“Gerry…this is Detective Robert Macaulay. We spoke at the station.”

“This ends badly, Detective. That’s really all you need to know.”