“Roger, Unit Seventeen,” the dispatcher said. “DMV registration says you’re looking for a 1998 two-door Honda Accord, color red, license number eight-four-nine, Bravo Whiskey Tango.”
Chapter 63
San Rafael
Zeke Zabriskie made his America West flight out of Albuquerque by the skin of his teeth, sprinting through the small terminal to board just before they closed the doors. The flight connected in Phoenix where he had forty-five minutes to kill but en route the captain announced the connecting flight to San Francisco would be delayed half an hour.
Zeke slung his knapsack over his shoulder and wandered around Skyport International until he found the serviceman’s hospitality lounge. He drank an overpriced Coors and shot the breeze with a couple of baby-faced marines from Camp Pendleton on their way home to Tulsa for a week’s leave.
He landed in San Francisco at three-thirty, rented a car and got onto US-101 just in time for the end-of-week rush hour. It took an hour and a half to get to Marin Bay Park. The entrance gate was closed but ironically, the exit gate was open. He drove up into the gated community.
At the address he parked in the driveway beside a yellow Porsche and rang the doorbell. He was so pissed off from sitting in airplanes and being stuck in traffic that, when no one responded to the doorbell, he pounded the door with his fist. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal Dave Munson standing there with only a yellow towel wrapped around his waist, his wet hair slicked back.
“Howdy, stranger.” Zeke stepped inside without waiting to be invited, his boots just missing Munson’s bare toes.
Munson closed the door and followed Zeke into the living room. His unannounced visitor tossed his knapsack on the sofa and windmilled his arms to take the kinks out of his shoulders. “What’re you doing here? How’d you find me?”
Zeke took in the view – big bare-assed painting on the wall, plush leather furniture, high-tech entertainment system, cabinet of antique coins. Whoever’d decorated this place had money to burn. He turned to face Munson. “What’s the matter? You don’t seem happy to see me. Am I interruptin’ somethin’?”
“No, it’s just that the cops have been sniffing around and then...”
“Cops?” Zeke went into high alert. “What did they want?”
“They were just asking questions… about a hit-and-run that happened near here.”
“Oh yeah, when was that?”
“Couple of days ago.”
Zeke came closer. “What do you have to do with a hit-and-run?”
“I just happened to know the guy that was killed.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that.”
Munson shrugged. “We weren’t all that close.”
Zeke hooked his right hand behind Munson’s neck, pulled him close and bit him none too gently on the earlobe. Munson gasped and sagged against him. Zeke caught the flap of Munson’s towel, jerked it away and looked down at his gear.
“Nasty-lookin’ trouser snake you got there. Does it bite?” Zeke reached down and got a grip on it.
Munson’s eyes fluttered as he allowed himself to be led by a short leash downstairs to the nearest bedroom.
Chapter 64
San Rafael
Detective Jim Starrett called the San Francisco FBI office to bring them up to speed – how his local hit-and-run investigation had turned up a possible suspect for the FBI’s case in Los Alamos, New Mexico. The FBI was grateful for the tip but their Marin County field agents were tied up all day taking down a child pornography network. Could Starrett arrest Munson on suspicion and hold him for questioning until they could take charge? The FBI agent promised to alert his New Mexico counterparts regarding this recent development.
Starrett clipped his holster to the back of his belt. He grabbed his jacket and felt to make sure his car keys were in the pocket.
“Can I tag along?” Crowe said. “I know it’s not procedure but I have reason to be present. It’s my case too.”
Starrett admitted he owed Crowe one. “You can follow in your own car.”
They went outside. While Crowe fetched his rental, Starrett made two quick calls – to Dispatch and his partner.
“Fred. Where are you?”
Hutchins was half an hour away in Tiburon, running down the whereabouts of a parolee named Nico Chorizo, acquaintance of the late Merguez brothers, cousin to a member of the Diablos del Norte. Theory was, in a deal brokered by the cousin, Chorizo might have done the Merguez hit as a way to join the Diablos.
“New development in the Lang case,” Starrett told him. “Munson’s into something bigger than suspected. I’m going to pick him up now. Meet me back at the office in an hour?”
“You want a hand in arresting Munson?”
“I’ve called a patrol car for backup. Hopefully he won’t lawyer up right away and we’ll have time to question him. See you back at the office.”
Crowe pulled up and tapped his horn to let Starrett know he was ready. Starrett twirled his finger in the air and took off with Crowe following.
~~~
On the way out San Pedro Road, Crowe saw a dead cat on the shoulder. He didn’t need to stop for a look at its entrails. The carcass alone was an omen. He had a feeling they’d find Munson too late.
His phone rang. It was Tracey.
“Just thought you’d like to know, those guys who attacked us in the park...? Last night our boys pulled Darin Guff over for drunk driving. When they punched in his name they found the assault warrant and booked him.”
“What about his buddy?”
“Benny Logue. Small-time Jersey City hood. Guff was driving Logue’s car, holed up at his place. Both in custody now.”
“They admit to the attack?”
“Guff said he was approached by Stockwell to give you a good beating, not to kill you, just enough for a few days’ hospital rest.”
“Considerate.”
“You know we’ve arrested Stockwell on a separate warrant?”
“Yeah, but it’s a related case. Things are happening here. But thanks for the update. And Tracey...”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I had to leave town so fast. I didn’t tell you last night but I would have preferred to stay. It’s just that...”
“You don’t need to explain. Crime scenes have a short shelf life. You’ve got to follow the trail while it’s still warm.”
“Speaking of which, I’m just arriving at another scene now...”
“Okay. See you.”
Crowe followed Starrett through the gates of Marin Bay Park and up to the hillcrest. The detective exited his parked vehicle and walked back to Crowe’s.
“Stay put,” he said.
“I think we’re too late.”
“What do you mean?” Starrett gestured to the Porsche and Nissan in the driveway. “Looks like someone’s home.”
“One way or the other, he’s gone.”
A San Rafael patrol car came up the street and blocked the driveway. Two officers got out with hands on their pistol butts.
Starrett beckoned to the patrol cops. “Not him, he’s with me. One of you, cover the back door in case Munson tries to make a run for it.”
Crowe sat and waited. He didn’t think there’d be any flight of suspect today. As Winston Churchill had once quipped when someone had warned him the fly of his trousers was unbuttoned, A dead bird doesn’t leave the nest.
~~~
With the patrol cops in position, Starrett rang the bell. No answer. He tried the front door and found it unlocked. He and one officer went inside, checked out the ground floor and, finding no one, went downstairs to check the bedrooms, where they found Munson.
He lay naked on the master suite’s king-size bed. The yellow sheets were covered with blood. His body was so wounded it looked like he’d been run over by a threshing machine. At a quick glance Starrett guessed more than two dozen stab wounds, sparing no major organ, internal or external.
An eight-inch
chef’s knife lay on one of the night tables. Made from one piece of stainless steel, a modern design running seamlessly from blade to handle, it reminded Starrett of a samurai sword, razor-sharp and lethal.
Body, bed and bloody knife were common features of many a murder scene that Starrett or any seasoned homicide cop had seen. But the bowling ball with its smoky red-and-blue swirls was something foreign. It appeared to have descended with all the force of a meteorite striking the earth, forming a crater between chin and hairline in what had once been Dave Munson’s face.
Starrett felt like he’d stumbled into the lair of the Cyclops right after Ulysses had sealed his fate. In the doorway behind him one of the patrol cops breathed in an irregular pattern. In the bathroom down the hall the second patrol cop was retching.
Starrett called his partner. “Fred? Better come straight to the Lang house. Someone’s whacked Munson.” He paused. “No, I’ll call CSU.” Another pause. “Couple of dozen stab wounds, plus something for the books. You’ll see when you get here.”
~~~
Waiting outside, Crowe used his iPhone to calculate an event chart for the Los Alamos car fire. With Libra rising, a movable sign said the criminal was a stranger to the victim. Seventh house Aries was a male sign, its lord Mars a male planet, so the killer was a man. With Mars in the sixth house ruling employees, the killer may have been hired, but in dual sign Pisces, more than one person was involved. An exalted Sun occupied the seventh. Sun and Mars were both kshatriya caste, suggesting the perp’s connection with government, military or police. Weapons were indicated by Mercury, using trickery and subterfuge, in association with the Sun, involving fire or bombs. One last factor, based on an esoteric technique, indicated a criminal with a troubled mind close to home.
Crowe sat on the fender of his rental car, watching two crows fight over something in a tree behind the Lang property. One of the crows made a stricken cry and fluttered to another branch, giving up the struggle. The other crow launched itself into the air and flew away. Noting the direction in which it went, Crowe checked his watch and the air flow in each nostril.
A crime scene tech in white coveralls carried a garbage bag to a van across the street and went back into the house. Starrett came out a few minutes later, lighting a cigarette as soon as he hit the street.
“The CSU’s going to be there a while yet,” he said.
“Can I get a look before they take him to the coroner’s office?” Crowe said.
“You really want to? It’s... messy.”
“Believe me, I’m above morbid curiosity. Maybe I can see something you can’t.”
Starrett hesitated. Allowing a civilian onto a crime scene was definitely out of order, but once the CSU was finished, where was the harm?
“You sure it’s Munson?” Crowe said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Is he recognizable?”
“Barely.” Starrett looked at Crowe, trying to fathom the origin of these questions.
“Let me see.”
Starrett shrugged. Twelve hours ago he wouldn’t have given Crowe the time of day. But if Crowe hadn’t come forward they’d still be in the dark with Lang’s death. “When they’re done.”
“Thanks.”
~~~
Hutchins emerged from a neighboring house and joined Starrett on the sidewalk. He’d been canvassing door-to-door for potential witnesses. He beckoned to Starrett and they crossed the street out of Crowe’s earshot.
“Neighbor at number thirty-nine saw another car late afternoon,” Hutchins said. “Pretty sure it was a current year white Pontiac Sunfire but never got a good look at the driver. All he saw was a guy, mid-thirties, in khaki flop hat and sunglasses. Didn’t notice the plates.”
“A guy. He sure about that?”
“Yeah. And he knows Lang was gay. He’s never seen a woman visit the house.”
“Shit.”
“What’s the matter?”
Starrett brought Hutchins up to speed on Crowe’s theory of a three-way murder conspiracy. “Up until now, looked like this New Mexico woman might be a key figure. Find her, I figure, we pull it all together. Now we’re looking at a new player, with barely two clues to rub together.”
“So what now?”
Starrett nodded toward Crowe leaning against his car, seemingly oblivious to them, studying something on his phone. “For starters, let’s be nice to him.”
Hutchins tipped his sunglasses on his nose and studied Crowe from across the street. “What’s the deal?”
“He’s been helpful. And we need help.”
~~~
It took the Crime Scene Unit two hours to complete their work. Starrett told them to take a break before they removed the body, weapons and bedding. The techs and patrol cops convened on the redwood deck overlooking the garden. Crowe and the two detectives donned disposable paper slippers and went downstairs to the master bedroom.
Crowe had seen a few dead bodies in his time but was shocked to see the violence wreaked upon Munson’s body. He looked beyond the multiple stab wounds, the blood and the dramatically-placed bowling ball for other details that might tell a story. He recalled one of Guruji’s observations:
Maya is revealed in the gross. Truth is hidden in the subtle.
“You’ve seen a lot of crime scenes,” Crowe said to Starrett. “What do you make of this?”
Starrett cleared his throat. “First impression, this is some kind of psycho. On second thought, it looks overdone. The bowling ball’s a bit much...”
“Any prints on it?”
“Only finger smudges. The CSU thinks the perp wore latex gloves. So obviously it was planned. But because of the multiple stabbing and the crushing of the face, we assume it was personal.”
“Unless it was meant to look that way. Did you find the gloves?”
“No. He must have taken them away.”
Crowe looked at the bed. “All this blood. The killer must have got spattered.”
“The shower stall was wet. He probably showered right after.”
Crowe looked in the ensuite bathroom. It had a Jacuzzi and a separate shower stall. He looked at the floor tile. “How many people have been in here?”
“Only one tech. We contained the scene to search for body hairs. Looks like the perp might have taken the drain screen after he showered but we managed to retrieve some hairs from the drain itself. We don’t know who they belong to but they might prove useful to make a DNA match.”
“Did they print the floor?”
“For fingerprints, I doubt it.”
“That tile’s a perfect surface. See if they can find a footprint.”
Starrett left the room to speak to the CSU. A minute later, one of them entered the bathroom with his equipment.
Crowe walked around the bed and studied a bloody handprint on the sheet. It was a right hand. “Can you tell from the stab wounds whether the killer was right- or left-handed?” Crowe asked Hutchins.
“Right,” Hutchins said. He pointed at the wall spattered with fine drops of blood. “Each time the knife exited, it threw a bit of spray onto the wall. You can tell by the way it angles, he had to be right-handed.”
“This handprint is interesting. Thumb’s very low-set on the hand and has a club-like upper phalange. A common feature among people prone to violence.”
“Tell me something that isn’t obvious.”
“I’ll give you a synopsis when I’m finished.” Crowe decided to keep his thoughts to himself until he’d seen everything.
The index finger was very short, its upper phalange bent toward the middle finger which seemed inordinately thick. The index finger reflected identity, self-confidence and ethics, while the middle finger symbolized authority, discipline and social order. In his estimation the killer had been severely disciplined in his youth, probably by an abusive father. Betrayal by an authority figure might have paved the way for subsequent transgressions of the law.
The little finger was long but also
crooked, even more so than the index finger. Reflecting both intellect and sexuality, this twisted little finger suggested a victim of sexual abuse at an early age who’d learned to lie to protect himself, thus developing a persona of fabrication and subterfuge.
Within a few minutes the CSU tech found one complete footprint and a partial of another, both left feet, on the bathroom floor. He showed the acetates to Starrett and Hutchins, who in turn let Crowe examine them.
Crowe rarely worked with footprints but the principles were the same as palmistry. He looked for deviations from the norm. In this foot the big toe was bulbous and club-like, indicating a potentially violent will. The third toe was twisted, echoing the hand’s theme of a struggle with authority. A long line descended in a serpentine path from that toe to the callus of the heel, suggesting a crooked path in life. On either side of the line were several arrow-like formations, suggesting familiarity with weapons. A deep horizontal score near the heel was in the position of the classic poison line of palmistry, usually indicating substance abuse.
“So, what do you say, Kemo Sabe?” Hutchins chuckled.
“He comes from a family with a history of alcoholism or drug abuse. Probably physically or sexually abused. He’s anti-authoritarian, never been married, but probably had military service. And he may have a tattoo of a snake somewhere on his body.”
Starrett and Hutchins looked at each other with deadpan expressions. Hutchins shook his head in doubt. Starrett jotted a few things in his notepad.
Hutchins went into the hall and called for the CSU guys to take the body away. As Crowe climbed the stairs to the main floor, he met them on the way down, unfurling a body bag.
Chapter 65
Bernalillo, New Mexico
On his way to the airport, Zeke Zabriskie paused to heave a garbage bag into a dumpster off Van Ness Boulevard. The bag contained bloody latex gloves, a bath towel and a drain filter from a shower stall. He returned his rental to the Alamo desk and cleared security just in time to make his flight at 6:30 PM. As the acceleration on takeoff pressed him back into his seat, he closed his eyes and reflected that, except for a few glitches, the job had gone off with military precision.