Sullivan's Justice (8 page)

“Forced entry?”

“Lock picked on the outside door leading into the garage. Smart, really. The garage isn’t armed. From what the alarm company told me, most people don’t alarm their garages.”

“He still had to get into the house,” Hank reasoned.

“No problem if she was home. This wasn’t a burglar, Sarge. The husband said as far as he could tell, nothing was missing. There’s some valuable stuff in here. You know, TVs, computers, jewelry, silver.”

“Could it have been a drug overdose?”

“Doubtful,” Mary told him, massaging her left shoulder. “When you see her, you’ll know what I mean. One puncture wound, remember? It would take a hell of a lot to convince me that this lady woke up one morning and decided to start shooting dope. Husband says she jogs every day. Doesn’t smoke, drink, overeat. Look at this place, Hank. She doesn’t even have kids to chase around. Handsome, successful husband. Most women would die for a life like this.”

“Other witnesses?” he asked.

“We haven’t been here that long,” she told him. “The woman across the street was doing her dishes in front of the window overlooking the street around eleven. She saw a person on a motorcycle circling the block. Believes the motorcycle was red and black. She doesn’t know a lot about cycles, but we showed her some pictures and she picked out a Yamaha.”

“Did she get a look at the driver?”

“Dressed in black leather and the helmet had a face guard. No license plate. It could have been someone who lives around here. Won’t know until we canvass the neighborhood again. A lot of people weren’t home.”

“Have you broadcast it?”

“Yeah,” Mary said, her face damp with perspiration. “I also made sure Charley Young was notified. Coroner’s office says he should be here in thirty minutes. What do you want to do about the press?”

“Stall them as long as possible. Where’s the husband?”

“Sitting in Scott Underwood’s unit. Do you want him taken to the station for questioning?”

“Not yet.” Hank walked outside to take a look at the body. Several officers were positioned around it. He squatted down and removed the canvas tarp. The expression on Suzanne Porter’s face was pleasant, almost as if she’d drifted off to sleep. She’d been a pretty lady—dark hair, nice features, clear skin. He could see what Mary was talking about. She seemed to be in excellent physical condition. He put on his reading glasses, picking up her left arm with his gloved hand to check out the puncture wound. It looked so harmless, he thought, like a mosquito bite. The last time he’d had blood drawn, the nurse had stabbed him three times. If the killer had administered a lethal injection as Mary suspected, he must have known what he was doing. He looked for other wounds and bruises. Other than a few scratches on her forehead, there was nothing.

Wandering back into the residence, the detective climbed the stairs to the second floor. The energy inside a house changed after a homicide. Like the victim, it became still and lifeless, regardless of how many law enforcement personnel were searching for evidence. He picked up a coaster in the master bedroom, then let it fall back to the table. It seemed to snap in place as if it were being drawn by a magnet. One of the dresser drawers was half open. He looked inside and found it filled with expensive lingerie, the kind she was wearing when the husband found her. What woman walked around in the middle of the day in sexy underwear? Maybe she was having an affair and the hubby came home and surprised her. Good motive for murder. He would have to keep an eye on the husband.

The other rooms were sparsely furnished. Big mortgage, he thought, for such a young couple. The house had to be worth over a million. He walked over to the window. They were on the wrong side of the street. Instead of facing the ocean, they had a view of a lot of other houses and the foothills. He knocked down the value to eight hundred.

Hank entered the master bathroom. He caught the odor of either cologne or some other type of beauty product. Reaching inside the shower, he sniffed a bottle of KMS Velocity shampoo. The smell matched. This murder was fresh. Either the victim or the suspect had taken a shower and washed his hair. He reached in and stuck his fingers in the drain, pulling up a wad of damp, dark hair.

Moving to the toilet, Hank lifted the lid and stared. The porcelain smelled like bleach. His eyes went to the chrome handle. Not even a smudge. Something had happened here. He could feel it. Practically sticking his head inside the bowl, he noticed something green in the far left-hand corner. As he looked closer, he saw that there was also a streak of red. He darted out in the hallway. “Get in here,” he said to one of the crime scene officers. “I think she vomited in the toilet. Scrape it off and send it to the lab.”

“Looks like the remains of a salad,” the man said, producing a specimen cup.

He went downstairs and stepped out on the patio. It had an overhang, the kind that generally came with the house. The boards were open, so the sun and rain would come through. He saw an object on the ground and bent over to pick it up. It appeared to be a top to something. “Hey,” he said, seizing another tech by the arm, “what do you think this is?”

“Lens cover,” he said, extending his hand to take it. “Must have fallen out of someone’s bag.”

“Book it into evidence,” Hank instructed him. “Maybe the killer took pictures as souvenirs.”

Mary appeared beside him. “Charley called. He should be here in fifteen minutes.” Her dark eyes scanned the interior of the house through the sliding glass window. A patrol sergeant was organizing a team of men to canvass the neighborhood again.

Hank stepped into the shadows at the far side of the house so they weren’t constantly interrupted by the other officers. He unwrapped a toothpick and shoved it in his mouth. He hadn’t smoked in four years, but he was only a year off what the teenagers called “quit gum.” He had trouble concentrating without something in his mouth. Oral fixation. He wouldn’t mind keeping his mouth busy on Mary, but she was out of his league.

“Want some?” she said, holding a paper cup filled with coffee. “It’s disgusting, but we’ve got plenty of it.”

“Nah,” Hank said, placing his hand over his stomach. “Tell Scott to drive the husband to the station. Vernon has seniority, you know. You should have notified him. Captain Holmes will want him to be second lead.”

Mary threw her arms out to her side, sidestepping beside him as he made his way back to the house. “Vernon isn’t here,” she told him. “He turned his pager off. What kind of homicide detective is that? Besides, I heard he was trying to get a position with the FBI. Give Vernon the reins and a caravan of FBI agents will be here by tomorrow morning.”

She had a point, Hank thought. He didn’t like Vernon Edgewell himself. He had no self-motivation. If someone didn’t tell him what to do, he did nothing. Although he had a dozen commendations from his days in patrol, he fell short as a detective. He needed the immediacy of the street. Homicide required patience. Other than a major case like the one they were investigating, most detectives worked alone, plugging away at a case for years until they either solved it or closed it. If a man was so inclined, he could goof off and never get caught. The only reason the captain kept assigning Vernon cases was so he could fire him when he dropped the ball.

Vernon was a pitiful detective, but the FBI had received a glowing recommendation. That’s the way it worked in civil service. A superior could transfer an incompetent officer and end up working for him a few years down the line. Passing him off to another agency was faster and less complicated.

Mary, however, had street smarts, an almost photographic memory, and would work a case until she dropped. “You’re on,” he told her. “I’ll tell the captain. We might need a woman on this case.”

“How about a good detective?” Mary said, punching him in the shoulder. “One of these days, I’m going to whip your sexist white ass.”

“Sure you are,” Hank said, elbowing his way out of the house.

 

 

 

 

 

B
rad Preston caught Carolyn in the corridor. “In,” he said, pointing at the door to his office. “What in the hell is going on? You haven’t checked in for hours. I want that report filed by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Carolyn sat down in a chair facing his desk. She felt like she’d been called to the principal’s office. “I’ve already dictated most of it. If I have to, I’ll type it myself after I go home.”

Brad removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. “Someone from the jail said you got Moreno to talk,” he said, yanking off his tie. “Is that true?”

“Yes and no,” she answered. “He talked, but he didn’t crack. Another hour and I might get the goods.”

“Christ, woman,” he said. “We don’t have another hour. You keep trying to find the victim’s sister. I’ll finish the interview with Moreno.”

“Brad, please,” Carolyn said. “I’m close, really close. If you go over there, everything I’ve done today will be worthless. Let me call records and see if they’ve located the sister. If they haven’t, all I have left is Moreno’s statement. I told the jail I’d be back before five-thirty. Once I talk to him again, I’ll dictate the report.”

“Give me the file,” Brad said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m going to put this baby to bed. You might come down with the flu or something. Ronald Cummings and Patty Trenton went home sick today. I don’t want you to be next.”

She was tired of fighting everyone just so she could do her job. When Brad set his mind to something, there was no way to stop him. “Be my guest,” she said, pulling Moreno’s file out of her briefcase. Removing the information she needed, she slapped it down on his desk. “Moreno is violent. He got his hands on my cell phone and crushed it. I had him pick up the pieces, so he may have hidden one to use as a weapon. Don’t try a face-to-face.”

“Why not?” he said, thrusting his chin forward. “You did, didn’t you?”

“That was this morning,” Carolyn said, sighing. “I’ve kept him in an interview room since nine-thirty. He’s not going to be a happy camper.”

“He’s a scrawny piece of dog shit,” Brad told her. “He gives me any trouble and I’ll mop the floor with him.”

 

 

Brad walked beside Bobby Kirsh, glancing at the prisoners inside the quad. As far as he was concerned, Raphael Moreno didn’t deserve to live. Judges should have shotguns and take down murderers right in the courtroom. Either that, or hang them in the parking lot of Ralph’s supermarket. Then murdering thugs like Moreno might think twice before they started robbing and killing people. Right now, the system coddled criminals. Everyone but the victims had rights. The six-month-old baby Moreno killed, what rights had that infant had?

He peered through the window, seeing a small Hispanic male seated at the table. “What’s that on the floor?”

“Urine,” Bobby said, arching an eyebrow. “Sullivan said to let him stew. Want me to have the room hosed down before you go in?”

“No,” he said, deciding he would rather tolerate the stench than drag this on any longer.

In law enforcement circles, Carolyn was famous. For some reason, whenever she appeared, prisoners talked. One inmate had been convicted of armed robbery. Carolyn had managed to get him to confess to killing his wife in Alabama. No one knew exactly how she did it. Brad took a deep breath as if he were about to bench-press two hundred pounds. “Open the damn door.”

The smell of human waste was sickening. He checked the chair before he sat down to make certain Moreno hadn’t defecated on it, then pulled a silver microrecorder out of his pocket. Placing it in the center of the table, he depressed the record button. “Officer Brad Preston, Ventura County CSA,” he said. “Defendant is Raphael Moreno, case number A856392.”

He stared at Moreno, waiting to see if he would speak without prompting. When he didn’t, he began. “Want to tell me why you killed those people?”

Moreno’s eyes narrowed into slits. His face was dripping with perspiration. His shirt was saturated. It had to be a hundred degrees in here, Brad thought, using his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Brad told the inmate. “You probably think there’s no reason to cooperate since your term of imprisonment has already been decided. That might not be true. If you show no remorse for your actions, it’s doubtful if you’ll ever taste freedom. You’re a young man. There’s still a chance you might be released in a reasonable amount of time.”

He was trying to mimic Carolyn’s style—bullshit him until he dropped his guard. He didn’t agree with her about all this early-release stuff, that the parole board kicked everyone out as soon as it was legally possible. She was right, though, when it came to truth in sentencing. When the judge had sentenced Moreno to serve eighty-four years, he’d failed to point out that he would be eligible for parole in less than half that time. If the judge had sentenced him concurrently instead of consecutively, Moreno could conceivably be out in six years. Victims should be told the earliest date a criminal would be eligible for release. The courts didn’t tell them.

As far as Moreno was concerned, even if he turned out to be a model prisoner, it was doubtful if the parole board would ever release him. If he’d taken out an entire street gang, it might be different. The seriousness of a crime rested not only on how a person was killed but whom they killed. His mother and sister didn’t count. Their next of kin were a couple of cousins who resided at an unknown location in Mexico. The Hartfields, however, had been a middle-class family. Their relatives and friends would appear at every parole hearing.

Brad glanced at his watch in frustration. It was almost four-thirty and Moreno hadn’t moved or said a word. Carolyn had more patience than he did. “Listen, punk,” he said, leaning down so he could look in Moreno’s eyes. “You’re not worth my time. Besides, you stink. What did you do? Shit your pants like a baby? Guess your mama won’t be able to clean you up since you chopped her head off.”