Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  This mystery novel is for entertainment purposes only and not meant to depict actual events or circumstances.

DIRTBAG By Willaim Leslie

A suspense mystery by William Leslie:

A Palo Alto police detective, who is legally blind and had polio as a child is smart case closer, despite these set backs; he always seeks the truth and never swears and never breaks the law, wouldn’t so much as cross over a double yellow line to get in the left turn lane, Buddy Cecil doesn’t realize it at first, but he is on the case of a life time, which may turn out to be the greatest challenge of his career, for he is up against a potent force that will stop at nothing to destroy him.
In a run down section of Palo Alto, a murder victim is found in the home of Nigel Mann, a college student and a real dirt bag, who is about to get lucky, when the girl of his dreams wants to show him the time of his life, and she ends up dead in his house.  The police are looking for him, but he’s nowhere to be found.  But this isn’t a small town murder.  This murder has larger implications.
In the course of his investigation into the double homicide, Cecil encounters an Aryan biker gang, that is not your usual hoodlums.  These guys are high level officers in the military.  A multi-billionaire is involved, but nobody is quite sure where his involvement ends, or where it begins.
Cecil not only has to fight a criminal element with unlimited resources, he also has to fight against department corruption, a double agent and homicide detectives hooked on cocaine and a humorous prank that lands one detective in hot water.
Cecil and his partner, George Moore, the office clown, enjoys poking fun at people, and will be up against the entire police department, when his best friend from childhood turns up missing, possibly kidnapped.  As the police make every effort to recover the lost detective, Moore decides to take the law into his own hands to get his high school buddy back.
An ADA, who is more concerned with getting convictions, than caring about the innocence or guilt of the defendant, goes against Cecil and his efforts to bring the right men to justice, involving a world wide conspiracy to change the social order.
In this story with junkie doctors and corrupt politicians, you will see a crazy world, where power hungry people are serious about more than just money and prestige, they want what the Nazi’s wanted: to control the world and kill anyone who gets in their way.


 Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 1

    Dirtbag: noun \ˈdərt-ˌbag\  A very unpleasant person, a lowlife scumbag…  Some people might consider Nigel Mann a dirtbag.  He certainly didn’t apologize for who he was and he didn’t care what people think; most of the time he didn’t care what came out of his mouth either, especially when he was drunk, talking to the guys about women, “You want to know what a women is good for?  Doing the dog,” and then he would sing, “I’m a back door man, baby, and I likes it down and dirty.”  His low-life buddies would laugh at how ludicrous he was acting.  None of them were getting a lot of tail, or could say they had a steady girlfriend.
    At work in the office, he was another person: while he once was rude and overbearing, now he was mostly polite and shy around women, almost as if he felt guilty for abusing their character so ruthlessly with words the night before.
    By mid day, he was feeling good, looking forward to the weekend.  Today was Friday and there was a hard rocker inside of him, that wanted to come out and play.
    A woman he never met before, incredibly good looking, appeared in his office doorway, his temporary office and she was looking sexy in a tight fitting miniskirt, when he unexpectedly flicked out his tongue and wagged it at her suggestively.
    This was the first time he ever tried such a move and he was sure his lewd behavior would result in a slap across the face, but Mary Donovan thought he was kind of cute and his lewd behavior provocative.  He was surprised when she sauntered over to him, as if she were a stripper in a nightclub.  Standing before his desk, with a seductive expression on her beautiful face and a hand on her luscious hip.  Stunned by her perfect body and her silky blond hair and ample breasts, he stared at her, then he was on her like a hungry wolf, leaping over his desk and bringing her back down on top of it, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, tearing at her skin-tight garments, rolling over a stapler and forcing files and file holders to the floor, while he pressed his flesh into her’s, pulling off her clothes, as she tugged on his jacket to remove it.
    Neither of them took much notice of the tall man standing in the open doorway, watching them take their office relations to a new level, he cleared his throat.  “Excuse me,” he said and the couple was startled to see him.
    Blair Thomas was as slender as he was erudite, and he smiled like he caught them in an offense in which they could be fired and he was a climber, who took no prisoners.
    Alarmed, they both sat up and straightened them selves out, a guilty expression on their faces.
    “Oh dear!”  Blair said in that thick British accent of his.  “What have we here?  About 10 infractions in the code of conduct book I should say.”  His fingers along one cheek, his thumb pressed firmly under his chin, he eye’d them askance.
    Mary looked worried, knew him to be a real penny pincher, a stickler for the rules: one of them being, no fraternizing during work hours; he was always a perfect English gentleman, which made it even more galling.
    Feeling more confident than he had a right to be, Nigel said, “Come on Blair, we both know you’re not going to say anything, or you’d be telling everyone in the office right now.”
    He seemed amused.  “Really?”
    “Yeah,” getting in his space, Nigel faced him, “what are you going to do about it?”
    Turning to leave Blair simply said, “You wait and see.”
    “Close the door on your way out.”  Nigel said, feeling hawkish.
    “No wait, Blair, please?”  Mary was thinking about her job, her future.
    “I’ll see you in the conference room.”  Blair left, leaving the door wide open.
    Nigel closed the door and faced Mary, as she was about to leave.  “Don’t worry about him,” he said, “I can handle him.”  And by him, he meant her as well.

    Blair was waiting for Mary in the conference room, where they were working together, updating selected files, and Mary took this opportunity to ask him a question, “If you wouldn’t mind?”
    “Certainly not,” he said cordially.
    “You saw Nigel and I together.  You and I know you could hold this over my head for some favor, why aren’t you?”  She knew the Englishman and there was no way he would let this infraction in the code of conduct book slip by him.  “What do you want?”  She asked, being a straight forward person.
    “Oh, I think you’ll find out.”
    There was a sinister look on his face that left her cold.  “What do you mean?”
    He would only smile.
    “Is there anything I can do or say?”  Mary pleaded with him.
    “Oh, Mary, anything?”  Blair had a provocative look.
    “Within reason,” she said, “dinner, I’ll take you out to dinner.”
    Blair wasn’t interested in dinner.  “Dinner,” he scoffed at her.
    “For a year… I’ll take you out to dinner once a week for a year.”
    If she thought Nigel was a well paid manager, because he was in a big office, then she was in for a huge surprise, because he was really a professional junior college student, with no future.  That was what Blair was thinking about.
    “Talk to me,” Mary plead, “tell me what I have to do, to make this go away.”
    “…and ruin the surprise,” he said, laughing and patting her arm gently.

    On the way out to the parking lot, Nigel, a man of medium build, ran into an old friend he’d forgotten about, a size large.
    His friend had a scar above his right eye, and he was muscular, like he worked out a lot and knew how to fight, dark eyes and a crew cut, tattoos on both arms, depicting a girl, a grave marker and one he couldn’t see on his neck, near the hairline.
    “Nigel,” he said, “remember me?”
    Suddenly, Nigel got an idea who it might be and tensed up, remembering a day that brought a lot of policemen to the school yard, a day of blood and death.
    “It’s your old buddy Dan.”
    A look of recognition came over Nigel, followed by an awkward silence.  He wanted to know how his old friend found him, but that was a question for later.  Now he had to act as though Dan was some long lost compadre.  “Wow, good to see you.  When did you get out?”
    “Just today,” Dan said¸ then pointed at his old friend and laughed.  “It looks like I got you.  Didn’t recognize me, did you, thought I was the boogeyman at first, didn’t you?  Oh that was beautiful, the look on your face, I’ll never forget.”
    Nigel took his old friend’s jabbing with good humor
    “So what you into these days?”  Dan asked.
    Feeling like he should show some strength, Nigel said in a masculine voice, puffing himself up, being proud, “I’m involved with… water polo now.”
    “WATER POLO?  Isn’t that a girls sport?”
    Nigel was crestfallen and went on the defensive.  “You ever hear of the Olympics, or the National Water Polo Association: it’s a respected sport… for men!”
    “Sorry,” Dan said gruffly, “no offense, my mistake, water polo is for sensitive  men.”  He laughed, “Get it?  Cause you’re so sensitive.”
    Nigel forced a smile, pretended he was all right being the brunt of the joke, then started making excuses and edging toward his car rapidly, saying, “Hey, it’s been great to see you, got to go to class now, so if you don’t mind… maybe later?”
    Pouring on the charm, Dan rushed up to his old friend and threw one hugging arm around his side, while jovially saying, “Hey, you don’t mind if I tag along, do you?  You wouldn’t refuse a brother, would you?”  Nigel was thinking, "I have to get rid of this guy before my big date with Mary."

    Dan sat in the bleachers, while Nigel swam with his team mates in the pool, doing laps, then a practice game; the players divided into two teams.
    Nigel, a thin muscular guy was in the forward position, facing Tiny Man, a six foot nine inch monster with a creviced face and pock-marked too, ugly, and his pal, Jack, the leader of the pack, a good looking square jawed guy with blue eyes and the Norwegian, a huge Scandinavian guy, with gray hair, aged 21.
    He knew jack and his buddies had it in for him, wanted him off the team, cause “he sucked,” as Jack said, “he keeps missing the ball and throwing lousy.”  He complained to the coach once, as if that would do any good.
    During the game, Nigel brought back the ball to lob it over to a teammate, when Jack or one of his cronies, always stationed near him, would grab the ball away from him before he could throw it.  Then Jack had the ball and Nigel tried to get in his face with his hands, which Jack found annoying more than anything, so he threw the ball and held Nigel under water with both hands on this cranium, while his pals, Tiny and the Norwegian swam in close proximity to make sure Nigel stayed under water.
    The coach was yelling at Jack and his pals to “let Nigel up,” and Dan stood up, his old protective instincts in play, to fight for an old friend if necessary, and stand beside him in a time of crisis.
    A fence between them couldn’t keep Dan back from going around it.  As he ran up to the waters edge, he saw a his old pal being held under water with one hand on his cranium, as he fought with both arms to rise up out of the water, his mouth a foot from the surface, a breath of air just out of reach.


 Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 2

    He was different kind of cop, Buddy Cecil wore his hair long to hide the scar on the back of his neck, persevered through a bout of polio as a child, laying in a hospital bed for over a year, and now he was oddly out of step with his fellow policeman and out of fashion for 1995, with a patchy beard and a baseball cap.  Legally blind without his specks, he was wearing thick glasses, dressed in a comfortable corduroy suit and Hushpuppies; he may not have looked it, but he was the best damn detective the department had to offer, clearing more cases than anyone on the force.
    His partner, George Moore, a man in his early fifties, a man who shopped at the big and tall store, had short hair and a disarming smile, that was sincere, and a sense of humor some people found funny.  He wore a long tall suit and tie, with matching shoes.  Moore has known his old friend, Cecil since high school and they went to the same college together.
    When Moore arrived at police headquarters in Palo alto, Cecil was heading out the door.  “Come on,” he said, “we have a case.”
    They arrived at the apartment building of Sheila Wendt, an airline Stewardess, who lived on University and Middlefield.  The cops climbed the outside stairs and knocked politely on the front door and a very petite young lady answered the door.  She was the one who called the police and she showed them into the apartment she shared with Mary.
    “Sit down,” Sheila said, “sit down.”
    Cecil stood in the entrance way, with Moore to his right.   For now, the lead detective, Cecil wanted to keep things formal.  “You said you had some information about a missing person…”
    Sheila remained standing herself.  “Yeah, my roommate, Mary Donovan, I saw her leave Friday night.  She was with a man, some stranger.  We didn’t speak and that was the last time I saw her, two days ago.  Now what she does and where she goes is none of my business-”
    Cecil cut her off.  “Has she ever disappeared like this before?”
    “Once, but that wasn’t her fault and in all fairness, she did try to get a hold of me, not that she’s obligated to, mind you.”
    “Is there anything else?”
    “Yes, a message, here by the phone.”
    There was a name and number on a note pad: Nigel Mann, 326 - 6676.
    “Mary is always very careful… she would let me know if she was going to be more than one night.  We always try and keep track of each other.  This is a dangerous world.”
    The detectives agreed.
    Cecil said, grasping her shaking hand, “Don’t worry.  We’ll find her.”

    Cecil and Moore pulled over to the curb in front of Nigel Mann’s home, in a worker housing section of Palo Alto, nineteen thirties style architecture, one story, wooden structures, with a half submerged basement and steps leading up to the front porch, where Cecil knocked on the door and called out “police!”  When no one answered, he told George to go around back while he waited.  Moore went down the driveway past an old Ford Fairlane to a stair case, that went up to the rear side of the house.  Upstairs, Moore looked into the empty laundry room, listening for any alarming sound, gun drawn.  Looking down, he saw an open basement door along the back side of the house.  Down stairs, he tromped through the weeds to the basement doors, slanted up against the rear wall.  One door, with it’s peeling paint was closed.  The other stood open and the detective approached cautiously, going down those decrepit steps, discovering a scene of such terrible violence, he had to choke down the vomit, his eyes unable to turn away from the horror and depravity of the crime, it was enough to make him sick.  He had to find his voice to call out, “DB!  DB!”
    Taking out his gun, Cecil dashed down the front steps and around the side of the house, talking on his walkie-talkie, “Possible 187 at 240 High: residence of one Nigel Mann, request for backup.”  At the basement entrance way, he proceeded cautiously.
    “George!  Are you down here?”  He squinted in the poor light.
    “Yeah, there’s a lot of blood down here, proceed with caution.” Moore said.
    When Cecil saw his partner was unharmed, he holstered his gun, trying to look into the vague shadows and dark corners, he noticed something that made him sick: a naked body about four feet away from him, laying in a shaft of light, emanating from a small rectangular window just above ground level.
    It was like some unbelievable nightmare.  Gasping, from seeing such depravity in a civilized society, all his years in homicide, he never personally witnessed a scene of such horrific magnitude before.
    The slightly bloated body of a woman had a white pallor to the skin, that was bruised in places, streaked with lines carved into her… flesh with a knife perhaps, deep grooves were caked with blood, everywhere including her face.  Bloody lines, crudely drawn squares and triangles, an all seeing eye, a swastika and cross bones, a sickening landscape of death and fear: a crucifixion over her breasts, tombstones across her belly, lines in red, in black and purple blotches, like a scene from a Hieronymus Bosch painting.
    Nearby was what looked like a partially dug grave.  Someone had scraped and clawed at the dirt floor with a pick axe and shovel, that lay haphazardly about.  Whoever attempted to dig this grave didn’t get very far: maybe an inch or two down and one foot wide, three feet long, and the reason why was clear, the ground was compacted hard dirt, like cement.
    The smell of death and the thought of some sick depraved soul carving up this poor woman made Cecil look away, hold himself up with his hands on his knees, a nauseous stomach turning sensation was swirling around in his gut, breathing heavy, he heard pounding in his ears, and he shut his eyes tight to ward off the pain in the brain.  Forcing himself to concentrate on the evidence, he opened his eyes and looked some more.
    His partner found a string connected to a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and pulled on it.  In the light, for the first time, Moore noticed the pools of blood on the ground and splattered on the walls and the shovel blade was caked with it.  “My God,” he said in a state horror, standing near a puddle of blood and wide drag mark streaks of red mixed in dark brown dirt, clotted blood in places on the floor.  This crime scene was like a mine field.  Everywhere he looked, he was in danger of stepping in evidence.
    “Check your shoes.  Make sure you didn’t step in it.”  Cecil said, carefully removing his own shoes, to find out he was okay, “No blood.”
    Moore checked his shoes and there it was, a spot of blood.  He couldn’t believe his luck.  He discovered blood on his shoe, while his legally blind partner, Mr. Mc Goo, the lead detective, comes up clean.  How is this possible in a sane universe?
    Just then, they heard someone descending the front steps and a car door open.  They had to get out of the basement fast.  Someone was on the run and they knew it, when they heard a car engine starting.
    “Watch your step!  Be careful!” Cecil said.
    They tip toed around the blood on their way to the stairs, then they went on an all out run, turning the corner around the side of the house, looking toward the street, they saw the Ford Fairlane that was parked in the driveway earlier, tearing out of there.
    The cops rushed to their car and got in, Cecil in the drivers seat, Moore put on the siren and got on the mike, “In pursuit of blue Ford Fairlane…”  He was looking around.  “Where did it go?”
    “East on Everett.”  Cecil said.
    “Going east on Everett”  Moore echoed into the mike.
    Cecil made an illegal U-turn, which went against his principals, breaking the law.  On a one way street, he was heading the wrong way up High Street to make his first right and follow the suspect vehicle; he was going so slow, Moore was thinking, the suspect’s getting away.  He wanted to drive.  His eyesight was better, but Cecil insisted on being behind the wheel, to over compensate for some inferiority issues, Moore thought.  They went down another block and turned and looked.  He was gone; the damn suspect vehicle… was gone.

    Fifteen minutes later, they were still trying to find that Ford Fairlane, then Cecil decided to return to the murder house, as a cop car passed by them on the street.
    “Let’s have a look through the house,” Cecil said irritably, and Moore followed him up the splintery weather beaten steps and through the front entrance way.  Guns drawn, going through the house, room by room, they cleared it of any suspects: any further suspects.   
    In the living room they saw another possible crime scene: signs of a struggle: toppled furniture, a beer bottle laying on its side, it’s contents spilled out on the worn throw rug, couch cushions on the floor and a purse: also by the couch, strangely undisturbed.
    Cecil picked it up, wearing rubber gloves, he kept in his pocket for such occasions.  He found the wallet and a drivers license for Mary Donovan.  Then he saw a tie sticking out from underneath the couch.  He kneeled down and looked at it.  It was new, but crunched up in the center.  He had his hand on the coffee table, near a paper envelope, he noticed contained a white powder: probably drugs.
    In the distance they heard the sirens.  Within minutes, the place was swarming with forensic units, and four more detectives.  He stopped them in the hallway and said, “Careful!  We have a crime scene here in the living room and one in the basement!”  He wanted to take control of the situation before anyone else stepped in evidence, “The scene in the basement is a body mess, we’ll need full protective gear, flashlights, the works; Lu, Stuart, take charge of that.  Woodman and Carlos, I need you here in the living room to gather evidence and take pictures.  Report your findings to me.  Be sure to bag that tie.”  He indicated the one laying on the floor under the couch.
    They got to work.
    On the way to their car, Cecil said to Moore, “That living room may be our primary crime scene for all I know.”
    “Then what: he kills her in the basement with a knife, he uses to carve her up like a Christmas ham, then tries to bury her?” Moore asked with uncertainty.
    Cecil wasn’t sure.  At the car, he stopped and asked his partner, “You think she was carved up before or after he killed her?”
    Stunned by the question, Moore had one of his own, “Torture?”  He was horrified.


 Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 3

    Reflecting on what he saw in the murder house, the hardened detective was repulsed by the possibilities; the thought of torture horrified him, gave him the chills.  It was obvious, he was up against a cold blooded killer.
    Cecil didn’t get the car: Nigel’s car, registered to him, one blue Ford Fairlane, parked in the driveway when they arrived.  Was it Nigel who ran out of the house and drove it away?
    Canvasing the area, the uniforms knocked on neighbors doors, until their knuckles were sore, asking the same questions over and over again.
    Coming up empty, Cecil found out where the victim and Nigel Mann worked, and it turned out to be the same employer: the insurance company: Harrison and Morehouse.  He met Lan and Stuart walking up the driveway, from the murder scene.
    “Forensic units have the basement covered,” Stuart said.
    “We’re free to interview suspects,” Lan said
    Cecil thought for a moment and told Lan and Stuart to “interview anyone who knew Nigel Mann and start with where he worked.  Moore and I will inform the mother, her daughter is dead.”
    “You get to have all the fun,” Lan said, sarcastically.

    One day she would be chief of police, for now she was a detective working in homicide.  Detective Stuart thought of this position as a stepping stone to a higher office.  She became a cop when women on the force were a rarity and had to be extra big and tough.  A barrel chested woman, wearing a pants suit and short hair, she had many masculine qualities.
    Her partner, Lan, was a small Vietnamese man, who escaped his homeland with his family through a harrowing ordeal on a small raft; many people in his party didn’t survive, but he and his family persevered, and he worked his way through college, spoke in fluent English and had a high estimation of himself and his abilities.  Considering what he has been through, overcoming such impossible odds and surviving, well, perhaps his feelings of self worth were justified.  Then to become a policeman in the US was like a dream come true.
    Together, Lan and Stuart were interviewing employees who knew the victim, Mary, as well as Nigel Mann at their place of employment, the insurance company: Harrison and Morehouse.
    A woman with pig-tails and freckles, who knew Mary personally, said, “She was great: she donated her time to charity.  I can’t believe anyone would want to kill her.”
    Drugs were found at the crime scene, so he had to ask, “Do you know if she ever took drugs?”
    “Oh, no, she was very anti drug.   Although, she did lead a free wheeling life style…”
    Stuart shot a glance to her partner, standing by the door and asked, “What do you mean?”
    The woman looked at her like, you know what I mean: sex silly.  “You might say she slept around a little.”  She raised her hands, breast level.  “That’s all I’m saying.”
    Thinking nothing of the impression he made, Lan had a sip of something from a silver flask he kept in a jacket pocket.  While Stuart missed seeing the event, the young lady did see the silver flask and knitted her eyebrows.
    People who talked with Nigel said he was real nice and always good for a laugh: “very entertaining at times, said he was an actor in the theater, staring in some Molière play about a miser, some comedy.  I can’t remember what he said, but it made me laugh.”
    “Do you have any idea where he might be at this time?  Someone he knew, or hung out with perhaps?”
    “Well, he used to hang out with that Englishman: ah Blair.”
    Blair was seated in the conference room, when Lan and Stuart came in.  Lan smiled, had a sip from his silver flask, while Stuart circled the suspect.
    Blair gave Lan a strange look.
    Stuart stood behind the suspect, making him a little nervous.
    Lan asked him if he knew Mary Donovan.
    “Ah, yes, Mary and I were work colleagues.  Why, has something happened to her?”
    They looked at each other, then Lan asked, “How well did you know Mary?”
    “As I say, we were work colleagues, nothing more… really.”
    Lan noticed a downward inflection in his voice, “You sound disappointed.”
    Blair hadn't noticed; he said.  “She… she was very beautiful.  But you haven’t answered my question: has something happened to her?”
    “And Nigel Mann, were you close to him?”
    “I’m afraid not,” Blair said, in his tony English accent.  “The man was deficient in so many ways, a fool could see that.  What is this about?”
    Lan nodded, thinking Blair was on the level.  “Mary Donovan is dead.”
    A moment of shock followed by a despondent look, before Blair uttered the word, “How?”
    “Murdered.”
    “Naturally, I will do everything I can to assist the police.  When Mary told me she was seeing Nigel.  I warned her, that man is trouble.  And now you see…”
    “What do you mean, trouble?”
    “He is unstable, unbalanced and prone to violent outbursts.”
    “You’ve seen this for yourself.”
    “Yes, right here in the work place.  The man had no discretion.”
    Lan noticed a lock of hair on his forehead that seemed out of place, but he dismissed it as nothing.  “You seem certain, Nigel is responsible for killing her.”
    “Well, they were seeing each other last Friday.”

    The detectives talked with Nigel’s supervisor, Bernie, who was just putting in his last days before retirement.  He saw them in his office.
    Lan took a sip from his whiskey flask.
    “Yeah,” Bernie said, winking at Lan when he saw the silver flask, “Nigel Mann worked for me.  Sometimes he’d let me have a shot of Whisky or two.  Don’t tell the wife.”  Wink, wink.
    This time, Stuart saw the whiskey flask too, and she gave Lan a very disapproving stare.
    The old timer couldn’t take his eyes off the flask, even watching Lan stow it away in his jacket pocket.  He looked old and haggard: had all the signs of long term alcohol abuse.  “Say partner, would you happen to know where a man might get a drink around here?”  Eyeing Lan cautiously, he said, “My wife… she won’t let me touch the stuff, but if I have to listen to her, I’m going to need a drink.”  He was being chummy with Lan, while the detective looked disgusted.
    Sensing Stuart might be inhibiting Lan’s willingness to share his whiskey flask, Bernie said to him, “Say, could I speak to you a moment alone?”
    “We’re here to find out what we can about Nigel Mann.”  Lan insisted.
      Bernie was also insistent on having a shot of whiskey, “My wife, says if I stop drinking, I’ll live longer.  I say, if I have to listen to one more minute of her nagging, kill me now!”  He laughs alone.
    “Do you have any useful information on Nigel Mann, sir?”  Lan asked.
    “He has a mother.  I know where she lives for a sip off your whiskey flask.”
    “Thank you sir, we’ll be in touch.”

    Once Stuart was alone with her partner, Lan, she asked “What was that about?”
    “What?”  Lan was completely oblivious.
    “The flask,” she said with irritation.  “The flask, you were drinking out of: what’s in it?”
    “What?  Water.  What did you think?”
    “Well, those flasks are usually used for alcohol.”
    “It fits in my pocket better than a water bottle and I need it.  This new medication the doctor has me on…”
    Stuart didn’t want to hear any more and put up her hand to stop him, then said, “Don’t drink from it during an interrogation, or… any other time out in public.”
    “You mean, I have to hide the bottle, like some drunk, even though I am not alcoholic?”

    A half an hour later, Cecil and Moore were eager to hear some news from Detective Lan and Stuart, where they had an impromptu meeting in front of the office building for Harrison and Moorehouse: an insurance company.
    Lan said, “Blair Thomas knew the victim, but he said they were just ‘work colleagues,’ nothing more.  And he said he warned her about Nigel.”
    “Said he was off balance, kind of a loner and shy around women,” Stuart added.
    “Blair said he was still taking classes at Foothill college.”
    Cecil looked at Moore and nodded.  Moore said, “Sounds like a professional student, under achiever, low self esteem.”
    “Anyone know where to find Nigel?”
    Stuart said, “We may have a lead.  A witness saw Nigel talking with a white male, mid to late thirties, tattoos on both arms, short cropped hair, wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  Maybe he knows where to find Nigel.  We’re taking the witness into the station to look at mug books; maybe we’ll get lucky.”

    When Lan and Stuart arrived at the police station with their witness, Woodman and his partner, Carlos were kicking back and waiting at their desks for further orders.  A body builder, with fine African features, Woodman would devote two to four hours a day forming his muscles into pleasing shapes for the ladies and his partner, Carlos was a proud Mexican American, with a family he rarely saw, due to job constraints and an active night life that didn’t include his wife who wouldn’t approve of his extra-marital affairs.  They were relaxing, that is until they heard the other detectives in their squad coming down the hallway, then they sat up at attention and pretended to be working on their computers.
    Cecil and Moore along with Detectives Lan and Stuart, where discussing the case as they came in the office.
     “The medical examiner put the approximate time of death to be about 3 days ago, sometime last Friday evening.”  Cecil said.
    “The same night Nigel Mann ‘had a date’ with her…” Stuart said with interest.  “If Mann tried to rape Mary, and she resisted, he might have had a knife and cut her up, but there was no blood evidence in the living room, so he must have done that in the basement, but how did he get her down there, by knife point?”
    Just then, the tall man looking through the mug book pointed at a picture and yelled, “There he is, that’s him.”
    “Who?”
    “Dan Murdock!”
    Woodman asked, “That’s the guy you saw with Nigel Mann?”
    “Yeah, that’s him!”
    Carlos and Woodman looked at the picture and Carlos said, “Dan Murdock just got out of prison three days ago.”
    “And Mary Donovan dies the same day?  Coincidence?  I mean, come on.”  Woodman said, “That’s a big coincidence.”
    Sitting down at his computer, Lan found some more information on Dan Murdock.  “He was sent to San Quentin for aggravated assault, for which he did twenty years.”
    Carlos whistled, like that was a long time to serve.
    “Who’s his parole officer?”  Cecil asked.
    Detective Carlos had that information and Cecil said, “Contact him and tell him we’re on our way.  Lan, Stuart, I want you to drive out to Montara, that is along the coast and speak to Nigel’s mother.”
    Cecil left with his partner, George Moore.

    A half hour later, Cecil and Moore were in San Jose meeting with Dan’s Probation officer, Tom, a man with cropped hair, piercing eyes and a wry smile, standing in his cubicle.
    Tom shook hands and said, “Dan failed to check in day before yesterday.”  He turned to pick up a file folder off his desk and opened it.  “I did some checking around and found his mother has a place in Livermore …thought we might head out there together.”
    “Sure, you can ride with us.”  Cecil said.

    An hour later, they were in Livermore, at the home of Cary Murdock, Dan’s mother, who lived on a quiet street in a peaceful residential neighborhood.  They went up to the front door together and Detective Cecil knocked loudly.
    When no one responded, he knocked even louder and yelled.  “Open up.  This is the police!”
    There was no answer, but then they heard something: a wail, a whine, a human cry for what they did not know.  However, it was alarming, when it turned into an ear piercing scream, and put a shiver up Cecil’s spine.  A woman’s voice, shouting swear words, sounded like it was coming from behind the house.
    Looking at his partner, he pointed to the driveway.
    Moore pulled out his gun, crouching down, he went toward the rear side of the house, followed by Cecil and behind him was Tom.  All three of them moving cautiously fast toward the sound of a human being in pain, or some sort of distress.



 Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 4

    The screams could be heard around the block and the police arrived in force.  About five squad cars pulled up and completely blocked the driveway to  Cary Murdock’s house.  The uniforms rushed in, guns drawn, while an elderly lady was screaming, “Leave me alone!  Now, damn you!”
    Fifty cops were moving in on one centralized location and in the middle of it all was Dan Murdock’s mother.
    An obese woman was swinging around a small trowel, she was using to weed her garden, wearing gloves, sweating from the effort she exerted, annoyed she couldn’t get the weeds out by the root.  “The roots are too long!”  She yelled.
    One of the uniform cops, turned to his partner and said, “You mean this was just about weeding her garden?“
    “It’s frustrating,” she said, “I can never get the whole root out,”
    Moore was trying to calm her down, holstering his weapon, showing her his badge, saying, “It’s all right, just put down the trowel ma’am, put down the gardening tool.”
    “Get all these men out of here!”  The old lady yelled, “I don’t want these men stomping all over my garden.”
    “As soon as you put down the gardening tool.”  Moore assured her.
    She threw it up in the air.  “There, you satisfied?  Will you leave now?”
    After kicking the gardening tool out of her reach, Moore told the uniforms they weren’t needed here and they “could be going now.”   He wasn’t sure why the uniforms were brought in, but he explained things as he went with them to their squad cars.
    Now the uniforms were on their way, Cary calmed down a little and asked Cecil what they wanted.
    “We want to talk with your son, Dan.”
    It disappointed her to hear her son was in some kind of trouble, and she pursed her lips and looked down in shame.  She always told Dan, if he got himself in trouble, get himself out of it “and don’t call me,” so he would not use her like a crutch and expect her to get him out of the messes he got himself into; she wasn’t always going to be there for him.
    “Look,” she said, “all I can tell you is, he was here yesterday, to see me briefly, he didn’t stay the night and he didn’t hold me hostage…  Is he a fugitive?”
    “No,” Cecil laughed.  “We just need to ask him a few questions…”
    “I’ve heard that one before.  Listen, he didn’t tell me where he was going, and he was alone.  That’s all I know.”   She waved her arms over her head to be free of him.  He was some else’s problem now.
    A dog barked in the distance, then another one started in.
    “Is he in the house?”
    “No, I told you, he’s not here.  I don’t know where he is.”
    “Well, then,” Cecil said, “you won’t mind if we look around.”
    “I do mind, but you’re not going to let up until you do look around, are you?  And I expect you won’t give me a moment of peace either.”
    “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”
    “Then be my guest, just try not to break anything,” she said, as Moore and Tom went through the house.  Cecil waited outside with the old lady and said, “Dan must have told you something that could help us find him, before he gets himself in any deeper.”
    She scoffed.
    Cecil came in closer, speaking softly to her, “Listen, I know how it is.  I have a boy of my own, who gets into trouble himself.  You care for them, try and do what’s right by them, but it’s hard to know what to do in times like this, but believe me, we only want to talk with him.  We’re actually looking for someone he knows.  Can… can you help us out here?”
    “I would, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”  She looked at him sincerely, nodding.

    Following a lead, Detective Carlos found Dan Murdock had a cellmate that was recently released and they arrived at his residence, the residence of Lorn Parsons.  He lived on East Ave. in Livermore and the lead detective knocked on his apartment door.
    He was another ex-con with tattoos, looking tough, spat to one side when he saw the cops.
    Scrutinizing the guy, Cecil figured inside his hard shell was a soft interior.  He asked Lorn if he knew Dan Murdock and he obviously did, though he tried to deny it.  The next question was “Where is he?”  and the guy pretended like he didn’t know and even if he did, he wasn’t going to tell the police anything.
    “You’re still on parole, right?”  Cecil asked.
    The con nodded, yes.  “Step aside, please.”  Cecil pushed his way into the apartment, followed by Moore and Tom.  The place smelled of sweat and urine and was untidy and greasy and dirty.  A mattress on the floor served as a bed and couch for watching television.
    As Moore and Tom looked around the apartment, Cecil spoke to the suspect.  “You better hope we don’t find any parole violations, or we could stop this right now and you could tell us where Dan Murdock is.”
    Lorn was eyeing the closet suspiciously.
    Cecil told his partner to look in there.
    “No, hold on, all right?  Hold on!  I tell you what you want to know.”  Everyone turned to see what he would say.
    “All I know is: he needed a ride to Palo Alto to see a friend of his, ah… Gerald Donaldson.  I said I didn’t have a car.  He was going to hitch hike.”
    Detectives Cecil and Moore, left Lorn’s apartment in a hurry, hit the highway, keeping an eye out for their suspect.  Taking the most likely route back to Palo Alto, Cecil was driving faster than he felt comfortable, slowing down a lot and hitting the brake to avoid other drivers.  It was dark now and there were only a few cars on the highway.
    They didn’t see any sign of Dan Murdock ,or Nigel Mann for that matter, but they did find Gerald Donaldson’s address in Palo Alto and they sat in their car, outside his house and waited.

    An hour went by, then the cops saw a man, fitting Dan Murdock’s general description walk up to Gerald Donaldson’s door and knock.
    A man opened the front door and let the suspect into his house.
    When the police knocked, the man who answered the door, identified himself as Gerard Donaldson: a well groomed man, handsome, fairly well off, he seemed like an unlikely person to associate himself with the criminal element.
    They asked to come in and he said he was entertaining at the moment and he wanted to know what this was about.

    “We have reason to believe your harboring a fugitive, a man named Dan Murdock.”  Cecil asked, “Is he here on the premises?”
    Donaldson narrowed his eyes.  “I have a right to a certain amount of privacy.”
    “Yes, you do,” Cecil said, “and we have the right to camp out here in front of your house and watch it, 24/7.”
    “Do what you have to.  I’m not letting you in.”
    “If you do have Dan Murdock on the premises and you don’t hand him over, we could charge you with obstruction of justice.”
    “Do you have an arrest warrant, or a search warrant?  …I didn’t think so.  This conversation is over.”  He closed the door.
    Cecil wasn’t done with him and he didn’t mind embarrassing himself and everyone else if that was necessary to solve a case.  He stood on the front lawn and shouted toward the living room window, with the curtains drawn.
    “Dan, I know you’re in there.  We only want to talk.  Really, we’re after Nigel Mann.  We just want to know where to find him.  Now, I could stand out here all night, telling you it’s all right-”
    The front door opened.  The dark figure of a man stood on the front stoop.
    “Are you Dan Murdock?”  Cecil asked.
    “Yes, but-”
    Cecil got a closer look, followed by his partner and Tom.  Dan Murdock was a tough guy, with his tattoos and muscles from working out in prison.
    “Well, at last we meet,” the lead detective said and introduced himself.
    Gerard looked on from inside the house.
    “How do you know this man?”  The detective asked, indicating Gerard with his head.
    Glancing back, Dan look snidely at Cecil, “We know each other from high school: haven’t seen each other in years?”
    Cecil looked at Gerard, then back at Dan and asked, “Where’s Nigel?  If you know where he is, tell me now.”
    “I don’t know.  That’s the honest truth: I don’t know.”  His sincerity seemed genuine, but Cecil wasn’t buying it.
    “All right, you’re coming with us.”
    “You said you weren’t here to arrest me.”
    “I’m not,” Cecil confessed, “but Tom here,” putting an arm around his shoulders, “Tom is your probation officer and he’s going to arrest you for parole violations, or you could come into the station with us for questioning.  So what’s it going to be Dan, door number one, or door number two?”

    They put Dan in a small room, with a little table and a couple chairs.  A neon light glared down on him and a camera’s unblinking eye caught him on tape.  Dan was agonizing over his predicament, pressing the palm of his hand into his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and letting the air out of his lungs slowly.  “Have to remain calm,” he told himself.
    Lan and Stuart, as well as Tom watched from behind the one way mirror, as Detective Cecil and Moore stepped inside the cramped room, Cecil in a chair and Moore hovering over the suspect, sizing him up.
    “Hey,” Moore shouted, “where did you get these bruises?  You look like you were in a fight?”
    The con pursed his lips.
    “You fight with Nigel over Mary and kill them both?  Or were you and Nigel in it together?”
    Showing Dan a picture of Mary’s mutilated corpse, Cecil asked, “Did you do this to her, or was it Nigel Mann?”
    “Was it you?”  Moore asked, “Did you kill Mary in a jealous rage, when she told you she wasn’t into a 3-way?”
    “You can tell us if you saw Nigel kill Mary.”  Cecil said sympathetically.  “That won’t reflect badly on you, after all, it wasn’t your fault, was it?  Just tell us what happened that night?”
    Dan looked like he was about to crack, but he kept his mouth shut.
    Moore suggested softly, “You killed her, didn’t you?”
    “No,I didn’t kill anyone.”  Dan blurted out.  I did get into a fight, but it wasn’t with Nigel-“
    “Who was it then?”  Cecil asked.
    “These guys… on his water polo-”
    “Oh, come on,” shouted Moore, “where is Nigel now?  Is he dead?”
    “I don’t know.  Last I saw-”
    “Last you saw what?”  Cecil shouted, “Just tell us the truth.  Did you kill Nigel, or did Nigel kill Mary?”
    Dan was speechless and agitated.
    “Where is he?”  Moore shouted.  “Where is Nigel Mann?”
    “I- I don’t know.”
    “Where were you last Friday night?”  Cecil asked.
    Simply staring, Dan looked like he was hit by a Mac Truck.  He opened his mouth, then closed it and until he said, “I want to speak to a lawyer.”  He wasn’t going to let the pigs railroad him into jail again.
    “Okay.”  Cecil reasoned, “You can do what you like, but then we’re going to have to hold you on a parol violation and suspicion of murder, let the DA make up his mind what to do with you, or would you rather cooperate and clean this mess up now, perhaps even go home tonight?  If you did nothing like you say, then you have nothing to worry about.  Just tell us the truth.”
    Dan thought about this and decided to roll the dice.  “I got these bruises in a fight with Nigel’s water polo team at Foothill college.”  As he said this, the cops were rolling their eyes.  “These guys were really going after him.  I was just trying to stop them from killing him-”
    “Oh, you were the great defender, were you?”  Moore was being sarcastic.
    Dan was on the defensive, “These guys on his team were a bunch of bullies, who were trying to drown Nigel.  Check it out; it’s the truth.”
    “So you got into a fight with the players on his team, then what, Nigel… show his savior a… reward for all his help?”  Moore asked; more sarcasm.
    “It’s not like that.  He gave me the slip, while I was trying to protect him from the guys who wanted to do him harm, he got away from me and I never found out where he lives.  I haven’t seen him since he drove me up to Foothill College and stranded me without-”
    “And I bet that pissed you off, bet you wanted to hurt Nigel for that?”
    “Even if I did, I couldn’t find him: didn’t know where he lived.”
    Moore thought he should check out Dan’s story, taking a step back and leaning on the wall by the door.
    Considering Dan’s answer, Cecil was beginning to think it made sense, Dan trying to connect with people he knew before he went away, hoping to rekindle an old friendship by playing the great defender: it made sense and leaning in, the lead detective took a more friendly approach and asked, “What happened all those years ago between you and Nigel?”
    “Nothing.”  He fell silent, before deciding to speak, “All these bullies were picking on Nigel because he was a lousy base ball player.  Sound familiar?”   The detectives listened.  “Only they were throwing stones at him instead of dunking him in the water.”  Dan remembered Nigel coming up for air out of the water, and all the boys that were throwing stones at him, back in grade school.  “He was getting hit in the back and arms…  I started throwing stones back at the jocks on the baseball team, aiming for the biggest bully in the bunch.  It was an unbelievable shot.  I wasn’t even aiming for his head, going for his chest actually, and hit him square in the eye.  The rock went through the eye socket and penetrated his brain: after a moment of shock, he fell back… dead.  Everybody in the school yard was stunned; one of them took a closer look and so did I.  The other boy said, “I think he’s dead,”  And he backed away from the corpse, from me, watching me, making sure I didn’t make a move on him.  Other were running away, he walked.  I wasn’t proud of what I had done, but I told my self, ‘the boy who died had it coming.  He shouldn’t have been throwing rocks at us.’  I looked over at Nigel staring at me… too shocked to move.  He was still there when the police arrived.”
    “What were you doing?”  Cecil asked.
    Dan looked hard at the detective.  “You wouldn’t understand.”
    “Try me.”
    “I was arranging the body so that the head was pointing north… the place of darkness.”


 Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 5

    Up before dawn, Cecil was on the case, visiting the Medical Examiner, a cheerful womanizer and a clothes horse, who drank heavily.  He was performing an autopsy on Mary Donovan’s body, when Cecil came in to have a look.
    Another man in a white coat was taking photographs of all the marks on Mary’s carved up remains.
    Cecil was so focused on the dead body, he didn’t notice the ME was three sheets to the wind.  The detective was too busy inspecting the lacerations all over the mutilated corpse.  “Cause of death?”  He asked.
    “Strangulation,” the ME answered, wavering and smiling at the same time.
    Taking a closer look at the marks around her neck, Cecil saw the bruises he missed the first time he saw the body in the poor light of the basement.  “She died of strangulation?  No blunt force trauma to the head?”
    “No skull fracture, and there was petechial hemorrhaging in both eyes, leaving no doubt in my mind… as to cause of death.”  The doctor burped and his stomach groaned.
    Cecil took off his glasses and examined the lacerations up close.  His face was an inch or two away from the surface of her skin.
    The cameraman had to stop and back away from the area.
    “Oh, sorry,” Cecil turned quickly, then resumed his close inspection of the corpse,  “are you saying all these injuries were post mortem?”
    “Yes, someone cut into her flesh after she died.”  The ME’s smile froze his blood.
    On her right facial cheek, Cecil saw where someone carved a swastika and cross bones into the flesh on her neck, an ominous looking runes symbol on the side of her abdomen: the SS, insignia reminiscent of the Nazis and Hitler.  His face reddened when he thought of another horror this woman may have endured.
    “Did someone… rape her?”
    Drifting, Marvin seemed tired and it took him a moment to collect his thoughts, then he simply said, “Inconclusive.”
    “What do you mean, inconclusive?”
    The ME’s finger wavered over the victims thighs and torso.  “She had some bruises around here, although… that may have been post mortem.  I didn’t find any bruising on the genital area or vaginal tearing, so… (burp) although there was penetration and she definitely had intercourse shortly before she died, and while rape is a possibility, I can’t rule it out.  It’s clear our female victim showed signs of forced trauma shortly before her death and was clearly assaulted physically, that much is certain, however, beyond that, I cannot say any certainty at this point time.”

    At headquarters in the homicide division, Detectives Woodman and Carlos wouldn’t wear a tie to work, sometimes they wore a t-shirt and Blue Jeans, they knew what pleased them, whether it be gambling, or drinking, or womanizing, these two men liked to party.
    Without endorsing their lifestyle, George Moore, a committed family man, who would never admit he envied all the action they got, thought he would set aside his strict moral code for once and tell them one of his stories, where he may have crossed over the line, the legal line, so they would know, he was cool too.  “I wasn’t a straight arrow my whole life.  I took some chances.”  He was nodding yes, but they weren’t buying it.
    “You?  Come on.”  Woodman was thinking, a lame ass milk toast like you?
    They stopped by the coffee and doughnuts table and helped themselves, while Detective Moore casually said, “Did I tell you about the time I worked for Townsend labs?  An animal research laboratory, cleaning out cages while I made my way through college?”
    Carlos and Woodman nodded no.
     “Well, these poor Recess Monkey’s... locked in their cages 24/7, wire mesh floor, living in their own filth and waste, until I came around to clean their cages once a day.  As I did, I got to know each and every one of them, giving them all different names and these cold hearted scientists, they didn’t care.  To them they were just lab animals, an object you inject poison into, so detached and inhumane.  Every cage had an ID tag to identify the monkey, and the scientists would come by their cages, look at tag, never the monkey, collect their data and make a mark on their clipboard, so one night when I was working late, and I was all alone in lab, I switched all the monkey’s out of their cages and put them in different cages.”
    They didn’t seem to get it.
    “To screw up the scientific data, don’t you see?”  Moore was smiling, sure his story was funny, maybe even a little heart warming.
    Woodman and Carlos finally got it and chuckled.
    Carlos patted Moore on the back affectionately and said, “You shit disturber, you.”
    Within earshot, Detective Stuart was sitting down, a dignified woman with a somewhat haughty air, who resented his humorous attitude and scorned Moore with a sneer.  Plus she thought he probably committed a criminal act and should be in jail.  She sat arms akimbo, staring at the suspects on the white board, and thought, “We’ll never know if his act resulted in one less cure for cancer.”
    Moore noticed her uptight attitude, her annoying way of talking and sitting all closed off from the world, so judgmental and rule bound.  Chuckling, he remembered the birthday gift he gave to her, a pair of thongs, for removing the huge stick she had up her ass.  That’s what he told her and everyone had a good laugh then too.
    When Cecil walked in the room, followed by a man in a lab coat, everyone got quiet and listened to the lead detective. “What I’m about to reveal to you stays in this room.  For now, the press is not to know about it.  While we recovered only one body from the house, it appears we have a double homicide on our hands and for all we know, Nigel Mann is the second victim.”  A room full of people were murmuring and Cecil said, “Conner can tell you more.”
    Conor collected evidence and ran all the lab tests, the forensics, the fingerprint evidence; he was an Irish guy with average intelligence, a receding chin and a lab coat, a quiet voice, almost afraid to speak louder.  Clearing his throat, he spoke with some difficulty.
    “Ah, the murder weapon that was used to kill Mary Donovan was a tie-”
    Someone leaned in closer to the speaker, looking perplexed.
    Conner’s voice got softer still, “A man’s tie was found near the couch on the floor, along with a beer bottle; skin and hair fibers were collected…”
    One detective turned to another, mouthing the words, “I can’t hear him.”
    “A small envelope containing trace amounts of cocaine was found in the living room.  Fingerprints were taken…” 
    Detective Stuart was having a hard time hearing him.  She thought she heard “the cocaine found in the living room fingerprints,” which didn’t make any sense.
    Conner continued, unaware anyone was having trouble hearing him, “We recovered prints in the basement on the pick ax and the shovel, which was clearly used as a murder weapon.  We found skin and hair fibers on the butt end of the shovel.  Mary's purse was found in the living room.  Only her fingerprints were on it and a partial that could be anyone’s.  Blood found in the basement and blood recovered from the shovel did not belong to Mary Donovan, which means we have a second unknown victim.”
    Someone next to him asked Moore, “What did he say?”
    Moore told him, “A second unknown victim.”  He said it too loudly and everyone was looking at him.
    “Shhh…”  Stuart said admonishing him.
    Conner continued in his normal voice.  ”We believe the first female victim died in the living room and her limp body was carried down to the basement, where someone cut into her flesh with a knife.  While the murderer was doing this, a second victim surprised him and the killer had to improvise and use whatever was handy to murder the second victim: the shovel was that tool.  On the cellar floor we found a bloody shoe print-”
    “What?”  Someone asked, having trouble hearing.
    “A BLOODY SHOE PRINT!”  Moore shouted.
    “You mean like the one you left in the basement?”  Carlos jibbed and everyone laughed.
    They were all looking at Moore, being the only one who stepped in blood, and now he had to endure some laughter and his cheeks reddened.
    “Hey, lets all give Conner our attention,” Cecil said.
    “Um,” Conner began, “we found scrawl marks in the hard dirt floor that appeared to be made by a sharp narrow instrument: perhaps a knife.”
    “Any idea what the meaning of these bloody marks in the floor?”  Cecil asked.
    “Some kind of Rune symbols, that’s all I can tell you for now.”
    Cecil missed these floor scratches the first time he searched the crime scene.  He would have to take another look in that basement.

    By the end of the morning briefing, Cecil told Carlos and Woodman, that he wanted them to investigate the drug angle.  “You were on the drug task force, right?  Well, Mary’s fingerprints were found on the cocaine envelope.  We need to find out where she got those drugs and if this crime is at all drug related.”
    After the meeting, they went out in the field, Carlos leading the way, saying, “Let’s have a chat with our old friend, the candy man.”
    They took an unmarked car to a small Spanish style home on Lytton Avenue, near Middlefield and knocked on the door.
    A hippy long hair opened up and tried to close the door on them, saying, “Oh no, not you guys.”
    The cops pushed their way in and the hippy backed up into the darkened room.
    Carlos pulled out his weapon and put the barrel under the hippy’s chin, while Woodman held his piece on everyone else in the room.
    Several people froze up on the couch, sitting around a coffee table, glass top, lined with cocaine, big joints in the ashtray.
    “What I see here is enough to put you away for about five to ten, so you’re going to tell me who has been dealing coke to one Nigel Mann.  Was it you?”
    “Who?”
    Carlos took his face in hand and slammed the back of his head against the wall.  “What are you, an owl?  You can do a whole lot better than ‘who’!”
    People in the room began to protest, “Hey man, you can’t do that.”
    “Shut up!”  Woodman shouted and the protester put up his hands, when he saw the gun.
    After his head stopped spinning, the drug dealer said, “What’s the matter, I don’t pay you guys enough protection money?”
    “I’m not on the Anti-Drug Task Force, asshole.  I’m from homicide and you better have some answers, because I don’t care what kind of deal you made with some other cop.”
    “But I told you everything I know.”
    “Not everything.”  Carlos started turning up the heat, forcing the gun muzzle into the hippy’s esophagus.
    “All right, all right,” the drug dealer shouted and the cop backed off with the gun.  “A guy, this big spender, with plenty of money, says his name is Nigel and throws down a thousand dollar bill, like I’m going to give him change for that.”
    “What did he do?”
    “Last I heard, he was going to Jennings place on Woodland.”
    Carlos holstered his gun and patted the hippy’s cheek.  “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”  Walking over to the coffee table he picked up all the bags of drugs and put them in his pocket.
    “Hey, no way!”  All the hippies protested.  “You can’t do that!”
    “Shut up!  Be glad we don’t arrest you!”
    Carlos walked out of there with one once of cocaine and at least that much in high grade marijuana, while Woodman held a gun on the druggies.
    In the car, Carlos stuck a straw in the cocaine bag and sniffed it in, handing the bag to Woodman, he pounded the wheel and went whoopee, tearing out of the parking lot.  He was headed back to the station.
    “Where are we going?” Woodman asked.  “That other drug dealer is on Woodland, that’s in the opposite direction.”
    “We just have to make a little detour first.”  Carlos had that crazed look in his eyes… wild man.


 Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 6

    Every cop on the force was on the alert to find Nigel Mann.  He attended classes at Foothill college.  Maybe the detectives would get lucky and find him on campus.  While Cecil and Moore looked around at the country club atmosphere of the college, they met with Nigel Mann’s coach.
    Coach Roberts, a balding middle aged man, was out by the pool, where his players eagerly splashed around in the water.  They motioned for Roberts to meet them by the fence and the detectives flashed their badges.
    The coach went over to greet them and asked how he could be of help.
    “Was Nigel Mann one of your players.”
    “Yes,” he said, “I read about what happened to him in the paper.”
    “Would you say he was well liked?”  Cecil asked.  “Did he get along with everybody ...on the team?” 
    An uncomfortable silence followed.  Roberts wanted to know, “Can we discuss this later, after practice?”
    “No, we’ll discuss it now.”  Moore insisted.
    The coach sighed and told his assistant coach to take over practice and said to the cops, “Let’s go inside.”
    Inside the doors to the locker room, to the right was Coach Roberts office.  They stood just outside it, and the occupants inside.
    “What do you want to know, was Nigel well liked?  Something tells me you already know the answer to that question.”  The coach declared.
    “We’re just checking on a few facts is all.”  Cecil’s smile was disarming.  “We understand one of your players may have dunked Nigel.  Is that true?”
    Coach Roberts nodded.
    “Who dunked him?”  Cecil asked.
    Reluctantly, Roberts gave up a name and added, “He held him under water for over a minute, maybe two.  By and large, my players are very well behaved, however, water polo is a rough sport.”
    “Did a few of your guys get into a fight after practice, in the locker room?”
    He blanched, then answered, “This guy with tattoos, looks like an x-con, never seen him before, got into a fight with one of my players.”
    Moore produced a picture of Dan Murdock.  “Was this the guy who started the fight?”
    “Yeah, that’s him.”
    After a thoughtful moment, Cecil asked, “What happened to him?”
    “He got away before the police came.  I don’t know where he went and I never saw him again.”
    “What about Nigel Mann?”  Moore asked, “Anyone see where he went?”
    Coach Roberts had no idea.
    Practice was over and the swimmers filed past the men standing by the doorway.   The players were slick with water, some shivering, some wrapped in towels, wearing bikini bathing suits.
    Cecil noticed a couple players had marks on their faces and body, possibly from a fight.
    After they filed past the cops, Cecil asked Roberts, “Those the guys?” indicating the ones with cuts and bruises.
    The coach nodded reluctantly.

    Ten minutes later the detectives were sitting in their unmarked car in the jr. college parking lot, where they had a good view of the gym and the double doors to the locker rooms, through which they knew their suspects would be emerging soon.
    “So Dan was telling us the truth.” Moore said, looking over at his partner, staring out the window.  “You think these guys murdered Nigel?  Why would they kill Mary?”  Cecil didn’t appear to hear him, as if he was lost deep in thought.  “Cecil!”
    He turned abruptly. “What?”
    Moore could see his partner was distracted.  He was here and he wasn’t here at the same time.
    Two nights ago, there was an incident in his home.
    Hs wife, Debra, a family councilor, working with parents to find better ways to handle their anger, was suspicious her second born child, Jake, was up to no good.  Home late and Cecil and Debra were getting concerned about his failing grades and spending too much time hanging out with his friends, they suspected of using drugs.
    They decided to search his room while he was out past eight this evening and when he came home, they were waiting for him.  “Look what we found in your room,” Cecil said, presenting Jake with the evidence: an illegal plant: marijuana, he was growing on his window sill in a little pot, filled with dirt.
    In a state of arrested shock, Jake’s eyes were wide orbits of fear.
    His mother, Debra was very upset, her child was using drugs. “Jake, can you tell me why this is wrong?  Do you even know why this is wrong?”  She indicated the pot plant she was holding.
    “There’s nothing wrong with that.”  Jake shouted defiantly.
    “Hey, keep your voice down.”  Cecil demanded, concerned he might disturb his sister’s sleep.
    A torrent of anger came bursting forth from Jake’s mouth, “What are you going to do, arrest me?”
    “I could arrest you and pro- probably should.”  Cecil sputtered out his words, he was so angry.  “You want to go to jail?  Because I could arrange it.”
    “You would.  You probably would.”  Jake was trying to think of what he would do if Cecil did put him inside the system.  He would…
    “Stop this.  Stop this right now.”  Debra said to both of them, now the voice of reason.  As far as she was concerned.  She practically got between them, but she stood beside Cecil and spoke directly to her son.  “No one is going to put you in jail.  We’ll have to destroy the plant-”
    In the kid’s mind, this was unreasonable, having seen his plant spring forth from a seed, Jake was looking forward to seeing it become a full sized plant and harvesting the potent bud, he shouted at her, “You would, you fucking Nazi bitch!”
    “That was it.”  Now Cecil had enough, stepping up to Jake and screaming at him, “You really crossed a line here mister!”  Cecil took the youngster by one arm and a shoulder and swung him around, then pinned him up against the wall, and holding him tight, his right forearm against his chest, his knee pushing in his gut, 170 pound man, pressing his weight against 120 pound teenager.  “What did I tell you about using profanity in my house?  No profanity!”
    Jake squirmed to free himself and squeezed his eyes shut in pain.
    “No profanity!”  The words echoed in his mind and the act of violent restraint he used on his step son, played over and over in his mind.
    Last night, Cecil came home from work, his wife was distraught and real worried, ringing her weathered hands.
    She just got a call from her “X” the son of a — she divorced and he said he got a call from his son, Jake, our son Jake…  She was chocking up, trying to say, “we’re abusing him, physically and mentally.”  She was in tears.
    Cecil took her in his arms to comfort her, patting her back.
    Debra pulled away, with weepy eyes, weak wrists, vibrato breathing, wailing out the words, “He says if we don’t let Jake live with him and that woman, [the home wrecker], he’s going to take us to court and try and gain custody, claiming child abuse!”  Now she was wailing and Cecil tried to comfort her once again, hugging her and pursing his lips in anger.
    “Well,” he thought, “the little bugger got one over on me.”

    While on stake out, Cecil told Moore all about his family situation since he was a trusted friend.  “You think I stepped over the line with Jake, don’t you?”
    It wasn’t for Moore to judge, but he personally thought his partner made the wrong move, using physical force to subdue a kid, especially when he wasn’t a threat.  Moore never struck his own kids.  However, he had compassion for his partner’s point of view.  Cecil’s father beat him and he believed he was a better man for it.  Perhaps he was; perhaps that’s what he needed.  However, Moore thought there was a better way.
    “There they are!”  He called out, saved by the bell.
    The students on the water polo team, were coming out of the gym, including Jack, the leader of the pack and his gang, who looked like they were in a fight.  The cops got out of the car and walked quickly up to them.
    “You mind if we ask you a few questions?”  Cecil said, revealing his badge.
    Jack and his posse, stopped for a word and the team leader said sure and Cecil asked him about the fight he had with Nigel,
    “The fight… it wasn’t with Nigel.  It was with his friend, whatever his name was.”
    “Oh, you didn’t dunk Nigel?”  Cecil asked, moving in, to get a close look at Jack.
    “I swear the fight wasn’t with him; this other guy comes out of the blue and gets in my face, yelling, ‘If you’re going to do that to Nigel, then you’re going to deal with me,’ then he starts throwing punches at me.  And Nigel didn’t even stick around and thank him.”
    Cecil poked his chest.  “You dunk Nigel.  You don’t like him very much, do you?”
    “No, all right?  He’s a lousy player.  Is that what you want to hear?  So what?  You going to arrest me for dunking him?”
    “He’s missing.  He may be dead for all we know, or he may be a murderer on the loose.  Either way, we need to find him.  You wouldn’t be any help in that regard, would you?”
    He wained briefly, then said, “I don’t know anything.”
    Moore showed him a picture of Dan Murdock.  “Is this the guy you got into a fight with?”
    “Yeah, that’s him.”
    “Where were you last Friday night?”
    Jack had his answer prepared, they could tell.
    On the way back to their red Crown Vic, Cecil said about Jack, “He also verifies Dan’s story.  What do you want to bet his alibi checks out?”



  Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 7

    After sniffing a line or two of the cocaine, Carlos and Woodman divided up the rest between themselves and set aside so much for sale and so much for their personal use.  They met with the boys on the Anti-Drug Task Force in their private office.
    The four players on the A-Team, as they liked to call themselves, sat down at the round table with Carlos and Woodman.  They were glad to see their old buddy Carlos, who lined everyone up.
    One of them was talking, but the Latino wasn’t paying much attention, using a razor to chop up the cocaine.
    “Carlos, it’s been what, two years since you left the A-Team; is this the best gig you ever had in your life, or what?”
    “Where’d you get this shit?”  Another guy asked suspiciously, while snorting a line of it.  “Oooeee!  That’s good!”
    To answer his question, Carlos mumbled something, no one heard and he didn’t try to clarify it.  He simply said, he had an 8 ball for each of them for a mere hundred dollars each, “That’s one Benjamin Franklin, roll it up and snort the shit.  He probably would.”
    “Probably would,” an idiot echoed, “roll up one of his own bills, with his own picture on it and toot away.”  He laughed.
    Carlos split the take with Woodman on their way out the door.  Once they were alone, the Mexican cop had a good laugh.
    “What’s so funny?”  Woodman asked.
    “We just ripped off the A-team, and their top drug dealer, who pays them protection money.  Since you weren’t on the A-team, you wouldn’t know this, but this dealer used to be my connection, till I left the A-team and they took my connection over, then they wouldn’t cut me in for a share the wealth, bunch of tight ass, skin flints.”


    On Wednesday morning, three days after a dead body was discovered in Nigel Mann’s basement, Detective Stuart reported into work early, but not quite as early as her partner, Lan, who had some news for her.
    “Phone records show: Nigel Mann received a call from Blair Thomas, on the night Mary Donovan died.”
    Stuart raised her eyebrows.  “He didn’t mention that, when we interviewed him the first time.  What do you say we have another conversation with him?”

    As they were driving to Blair’s residence, Cecil and Moore were checking on the Jack Sharpe alibi, knocking on his girlfriend’s door.
    A good looking blond in a robe and silk pajamas answered it, looking put out and said, “Yes.  Can I help you?”  It was all she could do to be polite.
    “Are you Gloria Parsons?”  Cecil asked.
    “Yes, what’s this about?”
    They each showed their badge and Cecil asked if he could come in and she opened her door to them.  They stood in the entrance way and Cecil asked.  “Do you know a Jack Sharpe?”
    “Yes,” she said tentatively.
    “Were you with him last Friday night?”
    It was like she was expecting the question and she had her answer prepared. “Yes, yes he was.”
    “During what hours?”
    “I don’t know.  Um… six to midnight?”
    “You ever seen this woman before?”  Cecil showed her a picture of Mary Donovan before she was cut up and dumped in the basement, like a pile of chopped wood.
    She didn’t recognize Mary.
    “We found her carved up remains in the basement of this man’s house.”  Cecil showed her a picture of Nigel Mann.  “Do you recognize him?”
    Gloria seemed distracted for a moment and had to ask, “Excuse me?  ‘Carved up remains,’ is that what you said?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
    Her horrified facial expression continued unabated.
    “Now could you identify this man for us?”  Cecil showed her the picture of Nigel Mann.
    She looked at the picture and remembered seeing him  “Nigel Mann, he was on Jack’s water polo team, right?  Yeah, I saw him at one of Jack’s parties.”
    “Have you seen him since then?”
    She nodded, no.
    Moore had to know: did she want to change her story, now that she knew this was a murder investigation.
    Gloria stammered, but stuck to her story, saying Jack was with her last Friday night.
    “We need to find Mr. Mann right away.”  Cecil said, “Anything you could do to help us would be appreciated.”  He handed her his business card, “If you think of anything….”

    Was Blair a cold blooded killer, or just another guy on the sidelines?  The call he made to Nigel, on the night Mary Donovan died was suspicious and Lan planned to ask him about it.
    In a condominium along a tree lined street near downtown Mt. View, Detective Lan and Stuart knocked and a woman answered the door, creating a small opening in which to peer outside.
    Lan showed her his badge and asked her if they could come in.
    Darting a glance back, she hesitated before letting them in.  When they entered, they found Blair, standing at the dining room table.  Apparently they were eating breakfast in the middle of the afternoon: halibut and eggs.
    Detective Lan apologized for the interruption and smiled wanly.
    Blair shook Lan’s hand, and said, “This is my fiancé, Janis,” indicating the pretty young woman who let them in.
    “Can I get you anything?  A cup of coffee?”  She asked the police.
    “No, thank you, we won’t be long.”  Lan said.
    Janis went into the kitchen, cleaning counters and dishes.
    The cops turned to Blair, Janis being within hearing range.  “If you like, we could conduct the interview somewhere… ?”
    “I have no secrets from my wife to be.”   Blair indicated two chairs across from him and said with an English accent, “Sit down.  How may I help you?”
    The smell of baked halibut in butter and garlic and mashed potatoes filled the room.
    Lan sat down, while Stuart remained standing, looking serious.
    Lan said, “On the night Mary Donovan died, you made a phone call to Nigel Mann, at his residence.  Would you mind telling me what that call was about?”  He waited for Blair to answer, watched him lick his greasy lips.  In the poor light, he noticed a lock of hair on his forehead that seemed out of place, the same lock of hair he noticed the last time he interviewed Blair.
    “A call?”  Blair asked, then seemed to remember.  “Oh yes, the call was work related.  Mary had left for the day.  I was working late.  Nigel pulled some files I needed and I called to find out where they were located.  I believe that was around 8 o’clock?  Shortly before I left…”
    Distracted, Lan found the aroma of the fish enticing, dismissing that lock of hair that seemed out of place.    “Where’d you go after you left work last Friday night?”
    Blair pretended to be mortally wounded, gripping his chest, “Am I considered a suspect now?”
    “Everyone is a suspect until we can rule them out.”  Stuart said.
    “But of course,” Blair conceded, still offended, “I went home, prepared dinner and ate it, then took Highway 92 over the hill to Half Moon Bay, to visit this bar I know, where I met the future Mrs. Thomas, the woman I hate least in this world.”  He smiled, but no one was laughing.  Suddenly he turned toward the fish on a serving dish in the center of the table.  “Really detective, you have to try the halibut, it’s simply divine!”
    The next thing Lan knew, he was eating a plate of halibut and marveling over the taste, while Stuart tried to get the name of the bar, where he met Janis.  Eventually she got the information from the Englishman and they left.

    Cecil and Moore found Gloria Parsons at work that afternoon, giving her plenty of time to think about her story.  She was bothered they interrupted her at her place of employment and when her boss discovered the police were there to see her, he didn’t look happy.  She faced the cops in the conference room.
    “Listen,” she wanted to cut this short, “I have nothing to add and I don’t like you bothering me at work.”
    Cecil started leaning on her hard, “You don’t like meeting us here, we could bring you in if you prefer, but one thing we aren’t going to do is back off, not until we get the truth out of you.”
    Moore added, “Just to remind you, this is a murder investigation and your boyfriend, Jack is our number one suspect right now.  You sure you want to protect him?”
    “He assured me, he had nothing to do with any murder.”
    “So you talked with him,” Cecil said.  “Did he tell you he held Nigel underwater for over two minutes?”
    She hadn’t heard that and now she was scared.  She said, “Jack told me he was with his buddies, vandalizing some school swimming pool and that’s what he swears he was doing, but…”
    “But what?”
    “I don’t know, if what you say is true…  He lied to me before and now I catch him in another lie?”
    “You think he’s capable of murder?”  Moore asked.
    “I don’t know anymore.  I really don’t know.”  And she didn’t want to know.

    In addition to obtaining Nigel’s phone records on the night of the murder, they also checked Mary’s and found something interesting: she made a call to a Donny Donovan.  Carlos wondered if they were related.
    “Let’s go and find out,” Woodman said and he was out the door.
    In the car, Carlos told Woodman, “Mary called Donny three times.  I bet he was her connection for the drugs.”
    Donny lived in the detached garage behind his mother’s house.  It was converted into a comfortable drug hang out/sleeping quarters.  He was a cross between a wanna be rock star and a comedian, a big Frank Zappa fan, with his long black hair and dark eyes, wearing black clothes and checkerboard tennis shoes, in his early twenties, a care less attitude, as he answered the door.
    After identifying himself, Carlos asked Donny if Mary was his sister.
    “Yes,” he was despondent.
    “I’m sorry for your loss, I truly am, but I’m going to ask you some tough questions and you’re going to answer them, right?  Why was your sister calling you on the night she was murdered?”
    “Just wanted to talk, I guess.”  Donny smiled politely.
    Carlos turned on the charm, “Mind if we come in and have a look around?”
    Before Donny could say anything, Carlos and Woodman were pushing their way into the converted garage.
    “I bet if we search this place, we’re going to find about a pound or two of drugs.  Am I right?”
    “No,” now Donny was scared.  “Okay.”  He tried to calm them down, “I’ll tell you what you want to know… just leave my place alone.”  He had their attention.  “My sister called… she wanted… cocaine.  I told her I didn’t have any-”
    “Woodman!”  Carlos shouted and his partner ransacked the place.
    “No, no, I’ll tell you, just-”
    His words were useless.  Woodman was on a rampage, then he found it.  “Here we go!”  The stash box was inside his secret drawer, under the coffee table.  In it, he found a large baggie of cocaine.
    “Yeah, that’s the stuff, that’s what I’m talking about,” Carlos sounded cheerful.  “You sold your sister some of this, didn’t you?  Of course you did.  Just tell me one thing, before I confiscate the drugs and throw your ass in jail.  Was your sister a regular user, or was this the first time?”
    “My sister never used drugs.  I’m not a drug dealer.”
    “Sure, you’re not.  Unfortunately, we’re going to have to arrest your ass?”
    “Why?”
    “Why?”  Carlos laughed and Woodman joined in.  “Because you secretly want to go to jail, Donny.  All your friends are there, remember?”
    “You can’t do this.  This is illegal search and seizure!”  Donny protested.
    “Don’t you remember, Donny,” Carlos said, “you invited us in.  Your stash was in plain sight.”



  Copyright 2016  William Leslie

DIRTBAG CHAPTER 8

    Detective Cecil put Jack Sharpe in the interrogation room, asking him, “Did you tell Gloria Parsons you wanted her to cover for you while you and your buddies vandalized school property?”
    Jack looked uncomfortable.  He realized his alibi fell through and now he didn’t have anything to barter with except the truth.  “Listen, I may not have been with my girlfriend-”
    “May not have been with her?  That’s precious,” Moore said with a chuckle.
    “All right, I wasn’t with her, but I sure as hell wasn’t with Nigel Friday night either and I don’t know where he is.”
    “Where were you when Mary Donovan was being sliced up on a dirt floor?”  Cecil asked.
    “I was with my friends.  They can vouch for my whereabouts.”
    “And where was that exactly?”
    “Were you vandalizing school property?”  Moore asked.
    “It was no big deal.  We were just trying to humiliate our opponents before the up-coming game.”
    “What did you do?”
    This was hard for him to admit, but it was better than going down for murder.  “We took a dump in their pool and pissed on their walls… and spray painted ‘loser,’ ”  Jack had a sorry expression on his face feeling like he was the loser now.
    Cecil asked him, “Why do your teammates say you weren’t vandalizing school property, said you were with your girlfriend.  Were they in on the lie, or are they telling the truth?  Which is it jack?  Where were you?”
    “I was with them.  They’re lying to protect me.”
    “Then what’s this?”  Cecil showed him a picture of himself, waiting outside a gay club in San Francisco.  “This is where you were Friday night, at a gay bar, admit it?”
    Cecil couldn’t believe it, but Jack wouldn’t fess up.  “You would rather go down for vandalism, then admit you’re gay?”
   

    Whatever shapes and symbols were carved into Mary Donovan’s flesh, Cecil felt in his bones, they were the key to this case.  Those symbols meant something, they stood for something.  He didn’t know what, but he had to find out, so the next morning, he went back to the murder house, and had another look in that basement, where he saw bloody gouge marks in the floor, depicting some kind of runic symbol, Connor, the lab guy mentioned.  Leaning in close and removing his glasses, he studied the lines closely, then looked around the basement and found a piece of cloth, torn on one edge, a corner edge hemmed straight, with many straight lines embroidered on it.  The cloth was neither old looking, nor musty smelling, very likely left here recently, on the floor underneath the work bench.  Cecil shook off the dust and put the torn piece of cloth in a baggie and looked around for any other torn fabric, when he found a small angular stone with intersecting lines he didn’t understand.  How could the forensic team miss this?

    Meanwhile, Detective Moore arrived for morning briefing and sat down behind Detective Stuart, an error he would soon regret.
    Two more detectives arrived: Woodman and Carlos were talking, when they all heard it: a long gaseous emission that was interminable and went on for nearly a minute and the following smell was so horrid, men who inhaled the stench of death, were revolted by the unwelcome odor and tried in vain to drive it from their nostrils.  Waving it away, Moore made for the door in disgust, as Carlos turned his face to the wall.
    They knew from where the horrid stench came: Stuart was embarrassed by her own bodily functions, for which she lost control, she tried to hold it back, but more gas escaped from below.  Gripping her large behind, she made a B-line for the door, passing Detective Lan, as he came in and turned toward her, smiling, saying, “Amy,” then feeling overcome by the stink.
    Soon the repellent odor passed and everyone sat down in chairs as Cecil came in and stood by the white board with it’s pictures of suspects and victim, a big question mark, possibly two victims.  He told them what he had so far and asked Carlos and Woodman if they had a line on where the drugs came from.
    “Did we have a line?  Yeah we had a few lines.”  Woodman thought and almost laughed.  He stifled a smile and felt embarrassed.
    Even Cecil could see his expression of humor and asked him if he thought something was funny about a homicide investigation.
    Woodman said, “Nothing, sorry,” and looked ashamed.
    Cecil didn’t like this behavior while he was trying to solve a double homicide, when they don’t even know what happened to the second victim.  To him, Woodman was being amateurish.  He was going to keep an eye on him.
    Being overly serious now, Woodman said, “The cocaine we found in Nigel Man’s residence matched a sample we confiscated from Donny Donovan.  There’s no doubt in our mind, he sold a quarter gram to his sister, Mary.”
    “Yeah,” Carlos concurred, “but we don’t think he was involved in his sister's death.  He had no motivation to murder her, swears she didn’t use drugs, maybe they were for Nigel.”
    “Besides which, his alibi checks out for the night of the murder.  He was with his friends snorting lines and watching the all star wrestling match.”
    Cecil turned to Lan, “What have you found out about Blair Thomas?”
    Lan said, “In 1986 he declared bankruptcy, and filed under chapter 11.  Six months before he became insolvent in 1984, he had a job with Rockland, a stock brokerage firm on Market Street in San Jose, before he was fired.”  Lan looked to Cecil for assignments.  “Should we bring him in for questioning?”
    “First, find out what you can from his old coworkers at Rockland.”
    Lan nodded and left.
    “We need to find Nigel Mann yesterday.”  Cecil said, eyeing Woodman and Carlos.
    “Donny has no connection to Nigel Mann.  I doubt he will be helpful finding him, but we’ll lean on him some more, maybe he’ll spill the beans.”  Carlos said.

    When Elaine entered the women’s room, her olfactory sense was struck by a foul odor and she could hear someone in one of the stalls emitting large amounts of gas.
    She decided to hold a full bladder instead of relieving herself, she went back to her office and sat down.  About fifteen minutes later, a haggard looking Detective Stuart stuck her head in and asked if she might be excused for the day, due to her loss of bowel control.
    “Yeah, yes, take as much time as you need.”
    Stuart said, “I would also like to lodge a complaint, but… perhaps this isn’t the right time for it.”
    “My door is always open.”
    “It’s just… I think someone sabotaged my food.”
    “What?”  Elaine was shocked.  “My God, you poor dear.”  She got her large frame out of her seat and went over to Stuart and ushered her to a chair.  “Sit down.  What happened?  Tell me all about it?”
    Stuart said, “I was having breakfast before the morning meeting at a restaurant on University, Jim’s Cafe.”  Suddenly she felt another bowel attack coming on and rushed to get out of Elaine’s office, gas seeping out of her clenched buttocks.
    Elaine sighed and went back to work, her urge to pee, clenched in by crossed legs.  Ten minutes later and Elaine was wondering if it was safe to use the ladies room, when Stuart reappeared, exhausted and in obvious pain.  She plopped herself down in a chair before the desk.
    By now, Elaine was rocking back and forth to hold it in.  She wanted nothing more than a quick resolution to the problem and said to Stuart, “What happened to you?”
    “I think Moore put X-Lax in my food at the restaurant.”
    “What?”  Elaine froze in place, startled by what she heard.  “What makes you think Moore did that?”
    “I saw him!”
    Startled, Elaine eyes were wide open.  “You saw Moore put X-Lax in your food?”
    Stuart was wondering if Elaine understood. “Not exactly,” she said.
    “Then what exactly?”
    As she was about to answer, she felt gas pressure build up and ran for the door.  When she was barely out of Elaine’s office, a huge gas bomb exploded and the smell was enough to make someone go “Pee-u.”
    Five minutes later, and Elaine had as much as she could handle.  She would find another restroom if she had to walk a mile.  On her way out the door, Stuart came by, feeling humiliated and angry and determined to get Moore, for what he did to her.
    She was a frightful mess and Elaine suggested that maybe she should go home.  They could talk later.
    “Oh, are you on your way out?  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
    “No, no,” Elaine said, feeling guilty that she was concerned with only her own problem in this moment.
    “This won’t take long,” Stuart said, sitting down in the chair before the desk.
    “I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Elaine said, bending her knees and extending them, repeatedly.
    Stuart turned toward the door and asked Elaine, “Are you going to come in and close the door?”
    “Oh, sure, sure,” Elaine never felt more unsure as she took baby steps to her desk, crossed her legs and rocked back and forth, the urine cresting and her ability to hold it in, greatly diminished, as Stuart reported the incident.
    “I saw the back of his head, as he left the restaurant.  I was in the bathroom when he sabotaged my breakfast food.”
    “You sure it was him?”
    “Same haircut and body type: tall, thin, broad shouldered.  It was him.”
    “But you didn’t see his face.”
    “I saw enough to know!  It was him.”
    Elaine came around the desk and walked Stuart to the door, coddling her, “Go home,” she said sympathetically.  “When you’re feeling better, you can file a grievance, if you still want to.”  The last part she said under her breath.
    “What?”  Stuart was feeling woozy.
    “I’ll have an officer’s drive you home.  Stanley, will you take Detective Stuart home please?”
    She handed Stuart off to Stanley and made a bee-line for the bathroom.

    Now Lan had some new information on Blair and he was eager to share it with Cecil.  Meeting him at his desk in their office, Lan told him about his interview with a Rockland employee, who knew Blair personally and said, “He had his problems.”
    Cecil looked up at Lan, standing in the doorway and asked him, “What kind of problems?”
    “Trouble getting along with women,” Lan responded, then explained, “Blair made a move on a woman, who happened to be the boss’s daughter, the owner of the firm.”  He was checking his notes.  “It was at a dinner party around Christmas time and he was subsequently fired after she rebuffed him.”
    “What was the name of the Rockland employee you spoke to?”  Cecil asked.
    Lan was flipping through his notes, “Gerard…”
    “Gerard Donaldson?”
    “Yeah, that’s him,” Lan said.
    “Hun,” Cecil was deep in thought.
    “What?”  Lan asked, wondering what Cecil was thinking.
    “Donaldson was the guy Dan Murdock went to see here in Palo Alto.”
    Cecil turned to Moore, who was sitting at an adjacent desk.  “Say George, What is the connection between these guys: Dan Murdock, Donaldson and Blair?”
    Moore furrowed his brow and thought about it.
    “What do you think Lan?  Did they know each other?”
    “Well, Donaldson knew Blair and Blair knew Nigel as well as Dan.  It’s possible Dan knew Blair.”
    “More than likely,” Cecil concluded.  “You think this might be a conspiracy?”
    “The question is, why would they want Mary Donovan dead.”  Lan said.
    “Say, since I have the two of you here, take a look at this,” showing them an angular stone in a plastic baggie, “I found this in Nigel’s basement and the lab guy identified the stone as a rune, and the markings on it: the symbol for the Nazi SS: Sowilo: shaped like lighting bolts, and the meaning of the carving in blood on the floor, was a talisman, a powerful binding tool in Nordic, or Scandinavian lore.”
    He showed them the torn piece of cloth he kept in a baggie, the one with embroidered lines.  “This was in the basement of Nigel’s house, along with this stone.”
    George handled the evidence and looked closely at it, then said, “Runes, an ancient form of communication…”
    “Also, a way of communicating with the dead,” Cecil added. “Look at this cloth, this hand stitching, you see there?  Somebody took their time with this.”
    “Hun,” George looked closer, “yes.”  Then he turned to his partner for further explanation and Lan made a close examination of the evidence too.
    “It’s possible this embroidered cloth is a hand made talisman, used in… some kind of black magic blood ritual.”



 Copyright 2016  William Leslie