Fine Points Malice And Payback
Rookie Tucson Detective Anderew Coates - Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2…
Crime scene photos of the fourth murder had been removed from the evidence case-board, replaced by a head photo of each victim in life. Below each picture Coates wrote their name, age, place and date of death neatly in felt marker.
When Andrew wasn’t working in the captain’s office, the board remained covered. Arthur Fleming couldn’t bear to look at the faces, especially Carol.
As the end of February, approached, the police chief pushed hard for a connection among the four women. And until Pastor Huntington’s death there had been a connection.
Because each of the first three victims had been prostitutes Coates first theory, was that some misguided puritan-minded sociopath had a grudge against streetwalkers. But with Carol Huntington’s death that assumption no longer worked unless the pastor had a secret lifestyle as yet undiscovered.
When Detective Coates wasn’t updating his computer investigation notes at his apartment or at the police station – he was wading through a round of new interviews and then comparing them with all of the older interviews.
One by one, he eliminated church parishioners, store clerks, family, some teachers, police officers in counseling, other church personnel and known friends. Three weeks after Carol Huntington’s murder, the novice detective had interviewed and cleared three-hundred and seventy-eight people.
Captain Fleming was impressed by the detailed thoroughness of the rookie. He hadn’t anticipated that.
As he read through Coates’ latest update, he shook his head knowing the chief expected results leading to an arrest, not just statistics. But the novice detective had methodically eliminated a huge field of relevant people.
Victim Case Summary:
· 2 widows, 2 single
· 2 Caucasian, 1 Black, 1 Hispanic
· 2 in their 30s, 1 in her 20s, 1 in her 40s
· 2 killed in month of March, 1 killed in Jan, 1 killed in Feb
· 3 known prostitutes, 1 therapist/church minister
· 3 died in their apartment, 1 died in her office
· 3 tested positive for semen in their vaginas prior to death, 1 had no semen present
· 4 childless
· 4 died from single axe blow to the lower side of their skulls, behind left ear by the same weapon, with the same physical mutilation to the abdomen by the same wide blade knife, commonly sold for any restaurant or residential kitchen use.
a] Fourth and latest victim [& case anomaly] had not accepted any new clients for eighteen months. The last was a couple seeking help with their teen’s depression.
b] None of the first three victims had been counseled by fourth victim, nor were any of the previous victims’ members of Saint Luther’s Church.
c] Still searching for ‘any’ similarities between witness statements and tip notes from cold-case files. Hope to find possible witnesses who were near Saint Luther’s the night Pastor Huntington was attacked. Regards, Detective Andrew Coates.
Captain Fleming worried the chief might soon insist that he assign someone else to take over, so the captain decided to take a more active role. When he hit the email FORWARD choice, he conveyed as such in a note to reassure Police Chief Perez.
………..
Mount Lemon Park covered an entire city block directly across the street from Saint Luther’s Church. Mature native desert plants and trees were plentiful. It was used and enjoyed by most of the surrounding office workers along with seventeen homeless people who regularly made use of the park’s benches in shaded areas.
Detective Coates had stopped by the park twice before. No office staff came to the park after they left work for the day. The nearest restaurant was three blocks away and with parking in the opposite direction none of those patrons came to the park after dark either.
The homeless population seemed a more likely resource. However, no matter how he approached any of the people, when he was spotted, they scattered like startled birds.
On his third try – using Detective Brayburn’s suggestion – he abandoned his polished shoes, sport jacket, white shirt and suit tie for his college runners, wrinkled pants and a faded shirt. And this time, Andrew emerged from the front door of the church carrying his cardboard file box emptied to make room for takeout burgers and fries.
An aroma cloud of warm food followed him to the central fountain. With the box resting on a nearby bench two women of an undetermined age were the first to show themselves from behind a grouping of agave and pampas grass.
“You sharin that?” A thin hand with broken and yellowed nails pointed to the box.
“Yes, ma’am I sure am. My name is Andrew.” He reached into the box for two small brown bags. “There’s a burger and fries in each of these.” He extended both arms toward the women holding the bags by the tips of his fingers in easy reach.
Andrew noticed three men standing a few feet away to his right. “Gentlemen?” He quickly pulled out three more bags then passed them out.
All three men hesitated.
“Go ahead.” The first woman’s words were muffled by her food packed mouth. “He’s just a kid,” she swallowed, “barely shavin.”
Both women laughed as they walked away.
With uncut hair and full-face beards, it was difficult to guess the age of the men. The boldest and the one who appeared to be the youngest had greenish-brown eyes with coffee colored skin, much lighter than Detective Brayburn.
He was dressed, slightly better than the other two men with him in a worn grey cotton jacket, white t-shirt, grass-stained tan cotton pants and scuffed black leather sandals.
“My name is Andrew…” Abruptly the bags were snatched from his hands and the men hurried away.
In less than seven minutes all except two of his twenty brown bags were gone, and he hadn’t been able to get a conversation started with any of the homeless people in the park.
Discouraged, he sat by his partially empty cardboard box on the front steps of the church. From across the street the park looked deserted.
The door behind him opened. “Don’t give up Detective.” Pastor Reynolds walked to the edge of the steps. He sat on the top step too with the file box between them.
“Hey, one for each of us.” The pastor retrieved a bag and opened it. “Oh wonderful, you got cheese and pickles.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense. They’re all watching you and me, so eat.”
They ate their burgers in silence for several minutes. Neither man touched his fries.
“Would you consider yourself a shy person Detective or fairly outgoing?” Pastor Reynolds had eaten half his burger.
Andrew stopped in mid-bite. “More reserved than outgoing, but I like police work. Why?” He bit and chewed.
Pastor Reynolds crumpled up the foil wrapper from his burger. “The point of my question was that you worked traffic and met people before becoming a detective. As a detective you meet more people.”
“As a pastor I meet people too. You and I serve the public and are fairly balanced, most of the time, but we still don’t automatically warm to strangers right away.”
“Understand Andrew, that for homeless men and women, over half have metal or emotional wounds and their families have retreated for economic or other social reasons. Regardless, of the back-story, they’re all guarded.”
“One trip to the park with one box of lunch isn’t going to help you get the information you need.” Reynolds rolled the top of his bag closed. “I’d like to make an unsolicited suggestion that might work for you?”
Andrew nodded giving up on his food.
“Get familiar. Show up at our local community food kitchen and volunteer a couple of times, so they get to know you.”
………..
For the rest of the week Andrew read and read and reread and re-interviewed contacts and witnesses from the first three homicides - by day.
By night Andrew served food at the community kitchen that was two blocks from Saint Luther’s church. However, by the end of the week he hadn’t seen one person he recognized from Mount Lemon Park.
Andrew said goodnight to Pastor Reynolds then walked to his vintage Bronco searching in his jacket pockets for his ignition keys.
“So, what’s your real story man?”
Surprised, Detective Coates turned and looked into the eyes of a man you didn’t lie to, not ever, not even a little.
Andrew recognized the grey jacket worn by the youngest of the first three homeless men who accepted hamburgers in the park four days before.
“You not from here. You don’t go to that church and you ain’t no do-gooder.”
Coates relaxed. “Actually, I’ve met some pretty amazing people, with even more amazing life stories this week.”
He leaned against his Bronco driver’s door. “But you’re correct I’m not from here. I’m Detective Andrew Coates and I’m investigating the murder of Pastor Carol Huntington.”
“Thought so. You people are never off-duty – never seem to chill even out’ta uniform. Too bad about the lady pastor. She was special, real nice, real genuine.”
Andrew remained leaning against his Bronco. He studied his key ring for a few seconds not wanting to rush this fragile breakthrough. “You go to Saint Luther’s Church?”
“No.” Grey jacket stepped up on Andrew’s front bumper to sit on the left side of the vehicle’s hood.
Besides the jacket, he also wore the same clothing he had on the day they met in the park. “Vance and Arizona like the hymn music so they listen every Sunday by the fountain.”
“Vance and Arizona?” Andrew frowned moving from the door to lean over the hood next to his windshield.
“Yeah. Vance and me started to hangout. He’s the one with the grey beard and red hair then we found Arizona, or he found us. He just stuck around cause we didn’t run him off like everyone else.”
“How’d he get the name Arizona?”
“From me. He couldn’t remember much – hardly anything from his life.” Grey jacket shrugged. “We had to call him something. So, because we live here, Arizona seemed to fit.”
Detective Coates nodded wondering if he should push for this man’s name. Instead, he took the pastor’s advice and let what he needed, come to him.
“I learned a great deal this week from a lot of people with such varied stories. I discovered I truly liked meeting all of them. At least the ones who wanted to talk.”
The detective held out his hand. “Like I said, I’m Andrew.”
The man in the grey cotton jacket didn’t bolt or hesitate this time. “I’m Christos.”
“Greek?”
“Half Greek – well Cypriot actually. My mom was born in Limassol, Cyprus and my dad was born in Jamaica. He joined the U.S. Navy and was stationed on the island of Cyprus for a time.”
He grinned. “I was born in Alabama, guess that makes me part Greek, part Jamaican and part American.”
“At least you know.” Then Andrew found himself sharing more than he intended. “I have no idea what half of me is what. I grew up in foster care. Apparently, I was left in a box at the back door of a pizza restaurant. Since I was wrapped in a wool coat, my social worker made my surname Coates.”
Beginning to feel guarded himself, Andrew pushed away from his car. “Can I give you a lift?”
Christos slid down from the hood. “No thanks, Vance and Arizona are waitin for me over there.” He pointed to an alley, but all Andrew saw was one side of a dumpster.
The two men parted.
That night Christos took a long – slow – drag of his last tip of rolled marijuana. He hadn’t been sleeping well and hoped a little MJ might help.
………..
Dr. Lopez had been Tucson’s medical examiner for twenty-two years. And he’d become Detective Coates’ sounding board since the rookie became detective working mainly in isolation.
Andrew was perched on his usual stool in a corner of the autopsy room. “I’m getting nowhere and it’s starting to get to me.”
“I feel I’ve gathered enough info, maybe too much, but I need some tiny crack of insight. And I need to be the one to find it or I’ll be shuffling through only cold-case files my entire career.”
The seasoned M.E. wrote notes as he examined a heart attack victim. He didn’t look up. “Follow the evidence. You know that stuff prosecutors like to use for a solid conviction.”
The short, fifty-five-year-old doctor was typically calm and decisive. He had juggled a demanding career, married to his high school sweetheart while co-raising three sons and two daughters.
“That’s just it. There’s nothing to follow that leads anywhere. We have sperm DNA, but no match on any prison or criminal data base, state or national. With so many winter tourists I even got the FBI to check the RCMP database in Canada.”
“Still nothing. The sperm could be anyone’s – the killer or a regular call-girl customer, or a random client who has never been arrested so that’s still not solid stuff.”
“We have a boot print tracked from a tipped ashtray in the first murder that matches a boot print left in the dust on the floor by the pastor’s body. That clue wasn’t released to the media.”
“Allowing for the average height of a man’s size eleven boot, medium width - our killer is likely six feet tall, but he could also be two inches shorter or two inches taller. But according to the pressure of the boot’s indentation he is very underweight for his height…”
“Stop,” the doctor looked up. “You have more than you think.”
“Really?”
“What doesn’t fit with what you just told me?”
“Sorry, but way too much is missing.”
The patient M.E. began to stitch up the heart attack victim. “That’s exactly where you look.” He looked over the top of his bifocals. “You look for what’s missing. What might very underweight suggest?”
“A drug addict?” Coates jumped off the corner stool and rushed out the door. He ran the entire six blocks and up three flights to Robbery-Homicide then to his desk.
Detective Clarence Brayburn stood at his desk. He reached for his coffee mug, while Detective Mendoza was talking on her desk phone.
Clarence carried his brown stained mug toward the office break room. “You okay Coates? You look like you just saw Elvis.”
“Gonna make a revised investigation list.” Andrew signed into his computer. “Doc Lopez would have made one hell of a detective.” He looked up at the veteran detective.
Brayburn chuckled. “He already is. Let me guess, he advised you to ‘look-for-what’s-missing’, am I correct?”
“Yeah.”
The lieutenant walked away still talking, “Cause that’s the same advice he gave me when I made detective eleven years ago…” His voice faded when he disappeared through a door across the hall.
Andrew cleared his mind then began to type as if his fingers had a mind of their own. The moment he asked a question, an answer came to him:
*What was missing? Look for a motive.
*Why, were four women murdered the way they were murdered? Rage. Hate, Revenge.
*Why were all four rooms vandalized? All four murders were personal.
*Why were the murders personal? Killer knew each victim.
*How did the killer know all four women? One client.
Andrew was shaking when he stopped typing. ‘Holy shit!’ he thought, ‘the killer knew all four of the targeted women and they knew him.’
But why was the man who wore the boots deemed underweight by FBI lab techs? Was the killer sick and getting sicker? Did he blame the prostitutes? Had the killer seen Carol Huntington for guidance, and then did she suspect her client was a killer?
He tried to calm his thoughts and keep working in a steady direction. He was sure now that all four victims had personal contact with one client, a regular client, either physical, emotional or both...
………..
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