DIRTBAG CHAPTER 20

    A gloved hand was over the handle of the assault rifle, which was lowered to point at the apartment building.  A man in black gear and bullet proof vest, a helmet and goggles, stood behind a tree, glancing at the same building.  Four men in full protective gear and guns, utility belts armed with Tasers and Tear Gas ran across the lawn to take position behind a fence.  A gate was nearby.  One of them motioned to the others to get on the other side of it.
    Cars parked on the street had more men with assault rifles behind them.
    The order to “move in” was given and a battering ram slammed into the front door, bursting it open, bashing it against the wall.
    The first men through went into the room on the left: the kitchen dining area.
    “Clear!”
    The living room was to the right and a few men were pointing their high beam flashlights on rifles around the room.  A beam of light flashed by an object dangling over a dirty carpet and within a few seconds all the lights were focused on it.  A dead body was hanging from a noose, fastened to an eye hook, on a wooden beam in the ceiling.  They stood dazed for a moment in which they had to change gears.  They were no longer facing possible danger.  Now they were looking at a dead body and they lowered their weapons and removed their goggles, as the rest of the house was cleared of any danger, moving out when the site was secure.
    Detectives Lan opened a curtain and let in the sun light.  Piles of pizza boxes and empty Chinese food cartons littered the floor, overflowing the kitchen trash.  The place stank and it was crawling with cockroaches.  Looking at the face of the deceased, the detective could see it was Nigel Mann.
    Lan slapped on a glove.  He looked over the dining room and found a note Nigel left on a table.  The writing was at an elementary grade level, the letters were uneven and at odd angles.
    It read:     All the money is gone.
                    I can’t go to jail.
                    Nigel

    It wasn’t long before the place was swarming with cops, P.A. cops, San Jose cops.  CSI personal were taking pictures of the crime scene, before they cut the body down.  Others were gathering fingerprint evidence on the fallen chair.
    Lan was looking through every room of the apartment and Stuart was in the same area: in the neat and tidy bedroom, where she saw something surprising tacked up on the wall: a picture of Nigel shaking hands with Senator Hayworth of his district in CA, who at the time of the picture, was Mayor of Palo Alto.
    Then Lan found something interesting in his closet: women’s clothes, with blood on them: little drips and some splatter, hopefully enough for DNA testing.
    If the blood was a match to either Mary Donovan or Dorothy Wilson, then the police had their murderer.

    “Dirtbag,” Moore said when he heard the fingerprint evidence on the shovel and pick axe used to dig Mary Donovan’s grave matched Nigel Mann’s and that was the general consensus in the crowded room.  Nigel Mann obviously killed those two women.
    Lan said he talked with the Medical Examiner and his preliminary findings were, “No apparent bruising anywhere on the body, except around the neck, that was clearly caused by the rope.  No apparent signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds on the body.  Cause of death: fracture of the cervical vertebrae.  Normally, in a case like this, the victim would die of strangulation.  It is very rare, especially when the drop is only two and a half feet for the victim to die of a severed vertebrae.  Still, it is possible, so his finding is inconclusive, pending further examination of the body and any lab results.”
    Conor, the head lab guy was talking and everyone was leaning in to hear him, “Fingerprints on the eye hook, used to hold the rope, belonged to Nigel Mann, as well as the fingerprints on the suicide note, found in Nigel’s basement in his house in Palo Alto.”
    Stuart said, “The lease on the San Jose apartment was in a fictitious name and he left a phony previous address, and he always paid his rent in cash: one hundred dollar bills, in the amount of one thousand five hundred dollars.”
    “Most, if not all the evidence in the double homicide case implicates Nigel Mann as the sole perpetrator.”
    “All the fingerprint evidence, hair fibers recovered from the tie used to kill Mary Donovan belong to Nigel Mann.”  Stuart said.
    Lan added, “We’re convinced Nigel Mann acted alone when he killed Mary and when Dorothy Wilson interrupted him while he was digging a grave, he used the shovel to kill the second victim.”

    After the morning briefing, everyone went their separate ways, except for Detective Moore, who had little or nothing to do.
    Seeing Elaine was on the move, Moore followed her down the front steps of police headquarters, to the sidewalk, going east, toward Bryant, crossing the street and turning left, in front of the christian church, keeping his distance, so she wouldn’t see him and she lead him to the law offices across the street, in an old Victorian house, under the shadow of the civic center.
    Finding a place, hidden from view, Moore ducked behind a cement planter box and a line of bushes, on the civic center plaza.
    A half hour later: A forty-five year old man in excellent health, finely dressed in simple attire, a well trimmed beard, an expensive hair cut, a member of the elite emerged from the old house and descended the wooden steps and walked through the parking lot, toward Gilman.  Moore recognized Weiss.  A limo was waiting for him.  He wondered why the billionaire walked a block away to meet his ride?
    Then Elaine came down the front steps of the law office and walked to the bank on the corner of Bryant and Hamilton.
    Dashing down the steps and crossing in the middle of the street, in-between cars, Moore went inside the bank foyer.  He found Elaine inside the bank proper, and ducked behind a wall, outside the glass entrance way.  Her left side was facing him at the little table, where she filled out a transaction slip, while her hand trembled.  Tall and conspicuous, Moore was afraid she could see him out of the corner of her eye.  He moved out of sight.
    Peaking around a curtain, he saw Elaine approach a teller at the counter and hand the woman a big fistful of cash.  Moore knew that was enough to raise suspicions, but not enough evidence to go after her.  He needed more.

    On the surface he was a gracious and generous man, but underneath that charm were teeth and a real bite.  Ruthless in battle to win in court at all costs, he considered it his duty and his calling to put away career criminals and line his cap with as many feathers as possible, to climb up the ladder of success to the top, to one day be the man giving the orders, being paid the big bucks, the big cheese, the guy everyone venerated.  John Hammond, the Assistant District Attorney was a short, stocky guy, balding with blue eyes and a couple of chins and a strong sense of determination and a will to succeed.
    Talking with Elaine on the phone, John asked her if she was sure Nigel Mann acted alone.
    “All the evidence so far points to him, pending DNA results, which we should have in a couple of weeks, I would say, yes, he’s our guy and he acted alone.”
    “Then we can close this case and more on.  How are we coming with Cecil’s abduction?  Getting anywhere with that?”
    “You talked with Mike Aaron.  The man refuses to budge and he knows something and Jeff Mace would rather go to jail then name a single gang member.”
    “Was he involved?”
    “Jeff Mace, no, he has solid alibi.”
    “Well, you let me know when you have a viable suspect.”
    “Yes, sir.”

    Patterson and Norris were talking with Quirk, the security guard, as he lay in his hospital bed.  Patterson was informing him, “Carlos maintains you were obsessed with him and harassing him.”
    “What?  That’s an outrageous lie!”
    “Well,” Patterson was uncomfortable.  He didn’t know how to put this.
    “What?” Jerry asked irritably.
    “Well, there’s something else.  Woodman and Carlos failed their drug test.”
    “So what?”
    “Well, if they switched their samples at the lab, then why did they fail their drug test?”  The two cops began to look at the security guard as a suspect.
    “What?  No, you don’t think I made this story up and did this to myself, no way!”

    Now Cecil’s stepson, Jake was turning a profit and selling a lot of weed and things were looking good for him and his two buddies, O’henry and Little Man.
    “Who is this guy?”  Jake asked O’henry, while they stood across the street from the 7-11.  They waited to cross for a few cars to go by on Old Oak Ave in Redwood City.
    “I told you,” O’henry said, “he's one of my mom’s friends.”
    This didn’t sound right to Jake.  Immediately he was suspicious of anyone over thirty and he said this guy was definitely over thirty.  “And you say he just came up to you at one of your mom’s parties and asked you if you knew where to score some weed?”
    “I know he’s not a cop, I’ll tell you that.  He’s cool: he introduced me to The Stranglers.”
    “Oh, yeah, they’re a good band.”
    They crossed the street.  Ralph introduced Jake to the man standing outside the store.  “I’m going in,” he said, pointing to the double glass doors.
    “Get me a Slurpee,” Jake said, turning to the thirty-five year old man named Henry.
    He was asking the teenager, “Where should we do this?”
    “Well, not here,” Jake said and they went around the side of the store in the bushes by the dumpster.
    “You got the stuff,” Henry asked him.
    “You got the money?  Let’s see the cash,” Jake said.
    Henry showed him the money and the teenager slowly pulled the merchandise out of his pocket, a baggie containing some Mexican brown.  When the exchange was made, Henry took out the cuffs and grabbed the kid by the wrists, while he put on the restraints.
    In jail, Jake saw his trusted buddy, O’henry getting an early release, walking away, while he was made to stay behind bars and that’s when he figured O’henry ratted him out, used him to get a lighter sentence.  Jake was yelling loud enough for him to hear, “You turn me in, you fucking asshole?  You vouch for a nark, a fucking pig, you God damned piece of shit?”
    His father, Pete had to pick him up at 4 AM.  He was in the process of signing papers in the reception area, when his son was buzzed through the security door; the father felt somehow responsible for his son’s actions, like he was being punished too, when he was just trying to enjoy his life, something he didn’t do much as an adult, since he became a dad at the age of twenty.  He thought he could change his son’s behavior through positive reinforcement.  He felt guilty as hell; he failed somehow.
    On the car ride home, Pete asked his son what he was doing with his life, where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do.
    “I don’t know,” Jake pouted, “I guess I just want to go home.”



 Copyright 2016  William Leslie