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
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