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
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