A man of few words, narrowing his eyes, making him harder to read, Gerard Donaldson didn’t like people asking him questions at his place of business and that’s just what Detectives Cecil and Moore were in his private office to do.
Once the secretary closed the door, Cecil smiled pleasantly, then became serious, “Remember Dan Murdock? The man who visited you at your home, when we arrested him?”
Looking deeply embarrassed, Gerard repositioned himself in his comfortable chair. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Why don’t you tell us about it,” Moore suggested.
“Well, I’ve known Dan Murdock since the sixth grade. But I don’t associate with him, haven’t since he was sent away.”
Always suspicious, Cecil asked him, “How did he find you?”
“I don’t know. He looked me up.”
“What did he want?”
Taking a moment to answer, before saying, “I think he wanted to reestablish an old friendship, one that was over a long time ago.”
The cops were nodding like they understood. Cecil asked him, “Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Cecil’s voice and manner became harsh and demanding, “Dan wasn’t just trying to reestablish an old friendship, was he? He wanted something. What did he want?”
“A safe place to spend the night?” Gerard was guessing. He hadn’t gotten that far with Dan before the police arrived.
“You practice magic, Gerard?” Cecil was looking him square in the eye.
The question caught the stock broker off guard. “What?”
“Are you familiar with runes, Sowilo, for instance?”
He had an expression of incomprehensibility. “Sorry I can’t help you. Is there anything else?”
Cecil tried to think of a few more questions. A long moment passed where no body was saying anything. The detective was sure the stock broker was being less than truthful, but that was just a hunch.
The prisoner was seated before Cecil and Moore in a small interrogation room at the San Jose jail. Dan Murdock was trying not to look at them, but they wouldn’t stop staring at him and he was getting annoyed. If he could he would turn his back on them, but he was chained to the table and forced to face them.
Although his alibi checked out and it was confirmed, Nigel Mann left Dan at the gym and took off on his own, Cecil believed Dan knew something, that he was a member of some gang or cult that carried out this murder.
When Dan’s lawyer finally showed up late, he opened his briefcase and removed a file, then commenced reading it.
Cecil cleared his throat. “Now that you’re here…”
The lawyer, Terry Riley, a liberal with a mustache and a tweed jacket and a twinkle in his eyes, like he got it, the secret wisdom. He was still young, in his mid to late thirties and he held up a finger, to have the detectives wait until he finished reading the report, to ask their questions.
Moore and Cecil exchanged a look of disbelief.
“You are charging my client with a parole violation, is that right?”
“Let’s get this straight,” Cecil said, “I’m the one asking questions here.”
The lawyer rested his arms on the table and gave Cecil his undivided attention.
“I was just about to ask your client how he found Gerard Donaldson?”
“You don’t have to answer that question,” Terry said.
“On advice from council…” Dan echoed.
“Then tell me what you two were talking about?”
His lawyer gave him the green light to answer and Dan said, “Nothing really. We didn’t have much time to talk before you arrived.”
“You want to know what he said about you?” Dan pursed his lips. “He said you were bothering him and he was trying to get rid of you. Is that true?”
Dan’s anger was real, his eyes were glaring.
“And what about Blair Thomas? You remember him?”
Tensing up even more, Dan knew him all right, but he wouldn’t admit it.
Showing him the runic evidence in a baggie, the detective asked him, “Are you familiar with these… Do you know what they are?”
Dan’s lawyer looked at the evidence, then showed it to his client, who glanced at it, as if it meant nothing to him, “What are they?” He asked.
Cecil wasn’t sure he could believe him. “You’re familiar with the Sowilo stone, the insignia for the SS, the double lighting bolts, you familiar with that?”
“Yeah, I heard of it. What about it?”
Cecil showed him the torn piece of cloth he found in Nigel’s basement. Did Dan recognized it? The detective wasn’t sure. He looked Dan over and noticed something on his neck, a tattoo. Wanting to see it better, Cecil moved in closer, while his lawyer furrowed his brow and said, “What’s this?”
The detective could plainly see the skull and cross bones, wherein the bones were behind the scull.
“Moore, look at this. What do you think?”
As the two detectives were inspecting his tattoo, Dan was looking up at the ceiling and tapping his foot.
“This tattoo… what is it?”
Dan moved his head away from Cecil, who sat back in his seat, as Moore remained standing. The convict said, “It’s the Totenkopf.”
“What’s that?”
Giving him the dead eye, Dan informed him, “The Totenkopf was the panzer division of the SS.”
“So, Nazi insignia… Are you an Aryan gang member?”
A quick turn of the head, Dan eye’d Cecil severely.
“Is that a yes?”
He looked down, then straight at Cecil. “No,” he said.
The detective was sure he was lying. Even if he wasn’t there that night, he probably knew who killed Mary Donovan. “Was Nigel a gang member too?”
They made eye contact again. Cecil could tell he hit pay dirt. If Nigel and Dan belonged to the same gang, then others were involved with the murder too. Cecil had to know what gang they belonged to and he would start with that tattoo.
Lan and Stuart brought Blair in for questioning and he was waiting for Cecil in the interrogation room.
The detective came in and asked Blair where he was between 9 PM and midnight on the night of the murder at Nigel Mann’s residence and after going over Blair’s story in detail for an hour, he said, “Your story has so many holes in it, it’s like a piece of swiss cheese. You come home from work at 8 o’clock and take an hour to eat diner and 45 minutes to drive over highway 92. That would place you in the bar by 10 o’clock, but no one saw you in the bar until after midnight, leaving you a 2 hour window to murder one, possibly two people. Instead of an alibi, you have an excuse: you were lost in the hills of El Granada, trying to find a friend you couldn’t locate?”
“What can I say? It happened that way.”
“What’s your relationship with Gerald Donaldson? How do you know him?”
“Gerard? I worked with him, when I was at Rockland. We were good pals, until I left.”
“In disgrace, I understand. Groping the boss’s daughter, what were you thinking?”
“I was inexperienced. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You’re much better now, though, right?” He patted Blair’s cheek, which reddened in anger. “Tell me about Dan Murdock.”
The Englishman turned his face away, chin up, “Never heard of him.”
Turning his eyes into two thin slits, the detective scrutinized Blair and noticed a gash on his forehead, near a lock of hair, that tilted slightly, exposing the injury. “When did you get that?”
“What?” Blair touched his forehead. “Oh, that… a few nights ago,” he said with a tentative tongue.
“Would that be last Friday night? The night Mary Donovan died.”
“Could be.”
“How did you get it?”
Chin up, Blair remained proud. “I was bending down to pick something off the floor, when my head hit the table top.” He stayed strong, “I have to admit, I was a little inebriated at the time.”
Cecil stroked his beard and looked at the Englishman without humor. He presented him with the rune evidence and the man had no reaction whatsoever. The detective thought he was a stone cold liar. Why not get to the bottom line? “Would you be willing to submit to a DNA test?”
Blair thought about it for a long time , then he quipped, “Anything, as long as it get’s me out of here, as you American’s like to say.”
Lan heard the interview in the observation room and felt humiliated for missing the cut on the suspects forehead, that was hidden by a lock of hair, the last time he interviewed him at his home, he didn’t see it in the poor light. After questioning, Lan saw Cecil in the hallway, outside the interrogation room. Without a word, he cast his eyes down in shame, and went on his way.
By the end of that week, Moore was at his computer, going through his e-mails, when he came across one that startled him and gave him reason to be greatly concerned.
Cecil sat down and began writing a report at his desk next to his partner.
“What the-” Moore was about to swear, but he knew how Cecil felt about such language, so he held back. “I’ll be damned!” He said instead.
“What?” Cecil asked him.
He said Internal Affairs wanted to see him “on Thursday, August 24, at 0900 hours, about an inquiry into disciplinary action.” He was stunned. “Can you believe that? What do you think it’s about? I did nothing to warrant disciplinary action.”
“Calm down. Let me talk with Elaine.” He went by the boss’s office, but she was out. By time Cecil returned to their office, Moore was ready to leave.
“I’m going out for a drink, you coming?”
They went to an upscale bar, that was decorated in wood paneling and framed pictures, turning wheels, attached to rotating bands overhead in the rafters, a mechanism that served no discernible purpose. Cecil ordered a drink and Moore ordered a beer, then drank deeply and often. He was into his second beer inside of ten minutes.
“Take it slow,” Cecil said, gripping his shoulder. “Get a hold of yourself. It’s probably nothing. I mean, you haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”
Moore really gulped it down now and ordered another one.
“Pace yourself my friend, if you intend to drive home.”
“I’ll get a Cap-see, I mean taxi,” and he laughed.
Feeling better now, Moore said, “They have nothing on me. This is just a witch-hunt. This fishing expedition will be a… a walk in the park.”
“You know it. Can we go now?”
Moore took another big swig of beer, “Aren’t you going to have one? Bartender!”
Happy with his 7-up, Cecil didn’t want any alcohol. Moore made him get a beer anyway, which his partner left untouched, and he ended up drinking himself. After closing, Cecil drove his friend home and helped him to the door, where his wife took over.
It was supposed to be the party of the year to celebrate their new found wealth in money and drugs. Carlos and Woodman were living the high life: snorting lines, drinking hard alcohol, with two hundred guests, limos, ladies looking fine, swimming in the pool, or having barbecued spareribs, dancing to live music, eating hors d’oeuvres. The two detectives were in the company of two hot mamas in tight fitting dresses, when who should show up? The A-Team, of course, they were invited, but they said they had to work and now here they were.
Pleasantries were exchanged: “Who invited you? Get the fuck out of here.” Carlos was only kidding.
Team leader: Scott, a big dick, who liked to lift weights and groom himself in the mirror, was drinking a beer and eating potato chips. He said, “Carlos, you’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”
“Fuck you, dick wad.” Carlos retorted. “Want a toot?”
Scott smiled, “What do you think I’m here for, your company?”
They all sat around a table, Carlos, Woodman, Scott, and the A-team and two girls. The men were drinking beer and snorting lines. This went on for hours and Carlos was beginning to wonder when the A-team was going to leave, because all his other guests were already gone.
Ignoring the drug enforcement team, Carlos and Woodman gave their undivided attention to the two women at their table, hoping the four other men would take a hint and leave.
Fifteen minutes later, Carlos and Woodman were feeling extra woozy. It wasn’t the alcohol, or the drugs. It was something else. By time he figured out someone put something in his drink, he was collapsing and so was Woodman. Their dates were heading for the exit, while the A-Team was cleaning out their pockets and searching the house.
Carlos had a blurry view of Scott, saying, “The coke dealer you cleaned out, without asking me first, was my guy. Then you sell me back the drugs you essentially stole from me… you know how big an asshole you are? What do you think this is, Carlos, the old days, when you were on the A-team and ran things? New dick in town and that’s me. Get used to it!”
Copyright 2016 William Leslie
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