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Amazon
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Xlibris
ISBN-10: 9781450004480
Type: Fiction
Pages: 241
Copyright: March 8, 2010
ISBN-13: 9781450004473
The is about a murder committed in the present, but reflects to the victim's childhood and up to the present.
On Saturday a woman called the police department to report suspicious circumstances at the Lower East Side, construction site. The woman told the dispatcher that the door to the office-trailer had been ripped-off its hinges and it was now lying at the bottom of the stairs. Two police officers were dispatched to the scene and found the victim dead on the sofa, belly-up, bound by the hands and ankles. The victim had a series of punctures around and about his heart. The floor, covered with the victim’s blood, was a gruesome scene. The victim suffered a painful ordeal.
It was past midnight and the city had long gone to sleep. There were no witnesses, or evidence readily available to identify the one, or more, perpetrators to this atrocious act.
Detective Sergeant Gilbert Roland was called to the scene and he’d unravel the three C’s to the murder with every tête-à-tête he’d encounter: complexity, collusion, and convolution. He’d profile and chart the victim’s background; childhood and up to the present, displaying a makeshift diagram for his office wall that served both as a visual diagram and as a verbal bouncing board. Any, and all of those who’d hover or associated with the victim, were added to his wall of murder.
In the end, there would be a motive, or combination of motives for the murder: lust, wrath, gluttony, envy, greed, and pride. All of which revolved around a twist of fate, but only one motive outweighed them all…
Excerpt
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Cousin
Billy Johnson is no stranger to law enforcement, but specifically
to Det. Sgt. Gilbert Roland. A hardcore criminal who has been
in and out trouble, serving bouts of state prison time, one case
at a time, since his State of Arkansas exodus to Madera County. Billy
may have been born and reared in Arkansas but was a permanent fixture
in the city—most of his adult life. He never had a stable home, was a
verifiable White Supremacist and high-school dropout, with a long arm
of juvenile delinquencies that extend to his home state. He graduated
to more serious crimes—grand theft, burglaries, strong arm robberies,
and assault with a deadly weapon, but never murder. Billy wasn’t the
kind of person who initiated crimes of violence, though, he was more
or less predisposed; a person of opportunity, but penchant to avoid
confrontation at any cost, especially when it proves to be too risky for
his wellbeing. Billy was an active parolee, subject to search and seizure,
and was required to maintain his current address and telephone number
on file with State Parole, so, needless to say, Gil didn’t waste any time
pursuing the next piece of the puzzle.
“Hello, this is State Parole, can I help you?” the friendly voice of a
woman answered the telephone.
“Hi, this is Sergeant Roland with Chowchilla police department.
Can I speak to the on-duty agent? I’m conducting an investigation and I
need to find the current address and telephone number for parolee Billy
Johnson.”
“Sure, I can help you with that. Hold on,” she said as she placed
Gil on hold for what seemed like ten minutes—no doubt; patience is an
investigator’s virtue.
“Hello, you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here,” Gil said, as he waited patiently for the floodgate
of information to pour over the telephone line.
“Okay then, I thought I had lost you. Billy Johnson lives at 2510 S.
Front Street, your city, but we don’t have a telephone number on file, it
has been disconnected. His next reporting time is in three weeks. I could
send you an e-mail with his photograph, if you like.”
“Okay, that would be great! Thank you very much,” he said mildly
disappointed that Billy didn’t have a telephone number. A simple
telephone call to Billy would have placed him at his home for contact.
Gil would make the solo trip to find Billy for the interview, though,
Janette’s statement was adequate to arrest Billy; a confession from
Billy wouldn’t hurt either, especially if the pending physical evidence
from the crime scene was promising and placed him at the crime scene,
inevitably. Gil drove straightaway to Billy’s home without his entourage,
in a low-key approach to avoid suspicion. Likewise, he didn’t want to
tip off the criminal element in the city with police scanners. Gil had
cued dispatch of his intended visit with Billy, as this forethought, too,
ensured the creditability of the investigation which also gave Billy the
opportunity to make a statement without principals, accomplices, or his
peers knowing that he was visited by Gil, particularly if other possible
suspects hadn’t been contacted.
Gil attempted to finesse the best set of circumstances for the interview,
and also to gain his confidence and compliance. He arrived and parked a
few doors prior to his home, walking the remainder of the way, keeping
his eyes focused on any unusual movement around the yard, doors, and
windows, as he listened for sounds emanating from within the home,
but for the moment, Billy was living with his elderly parents who were
of good character, never been in trouble, no notable police contacts,
and worked all of their lives trying to make a good home for Billy. The
home, built in the early 1980s, was a white single-storey, four-bedroom
Ranch-style home with an attached two-car garage and large front and
rear yard. The front porch was cemented, flushed to the ground, with two
posts at each end securing the porch roof; a dangling electrical glass lamp
was centered to the porch and sporting a newer chain-linked boxed fence
that cornered their territory. Gil reached the front gate and unlatched the
horseshoe-shaped locking devise at the top with a single upward motion
and walked into the yard as the spring-loaded gate closed behind him.
He made his way across the yard to the solid, screenless, front door,
knocking his usual three times against the white-painted, wooden door,
but there was no answer. Gil thought this would’ve been the perfect
opportunity to ring Billy’s home phone—with his cellphone—and hear
it ring inside. He could then listen to hear if anyone would answer the
telephone, but that was moot now ’cause there was no telephone listed,
or telephone service known to him. He knocked three more times and
again listened for sounds within the home, and waited. The door opened
slowly as Billy’s physique materialized and manifested with every creak
of the opening door.
“Hi can I help you?” He said.
“Hi Billy, how have you been?” Gil said as he noticed Billy standing
before him without a difference in appearance, five foot six inches tall,
a solid built as though he were made for running, clean shaven except
for his neatly trimmed moustache, brown hair, blue eyes, wearing his
usual white T-shirt, blue jeans, and ragged tennis shoes, and yet, the
road he traveled—just like Spider—bore a paralleled journey with each
and every pigmented tattoo covering his entire body.
“I’ve been good. Did you need something?” he said.
“Billy, listen, I have been investigating the murder of John Garcia,
and I was wondering if you had a little time to talk to me about it.”
“There’s nothing I can say, I don’t know anything about John.”
“Did you know John Garcia?”
“No, I don’t know who he is.”
“Well, Spider and Janette, your cousin, have been arrested,” Gil
said, but not disclosing the reasons for the arrest, “and I was hoping you
could tell me a little about those two; you do know them, right?” Gil
said to set the stage for the interview.
“Yes, I know them,” Billy said as he shifted his posture and threw his
arms across his chest and interlocked them under his biceps—confident
that Gil was not there to arrest him, but was more concerned over his
associates.
“You know, Billy, rather than standing here in the open where your
friends can see us talking, let’s go to the station, where we can talk in
private—sounds okay with you?” he asked.
“I can’t leave because I take care of my parents, and they are on their
way back from shopping.”
“Hey, you know what, you’re such a great guy, Billy,” Gil said.
“Okay, well, I know you take care of them at nighttime don’t you, and
they’re usually doing their own things during the day, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well its day time now, and they won’t mind if you come and talk
to me—our talk won’t take long, and then you can talk to them before it
gets dark—I need your help, okay, Billy?” He said to reassure him that
his information would be vital to the investigation.
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
“No, save your gas, and I’ll drive you to the station,” he said, as
experience had forewarned him that guilty persons develop excuses
along the way and change their course of travel, so he encouraged Billy
to ride with him and he agreed.
“Yeah, okay,” said Billy as he walked toward the unit with Gil
trailing.
“Billy, don’t sit in the back! You’re not under arrest—what are you
thinking? Sit in the front, just make sure you put on your seat belt, okay,”
Gil said as he mulled over as to whether or not Billy was experiencing
a conscience of guilt, or if he was so accustomed to sitting in the back
of police units, that he was automatically programmed. Billy was going
to the station for the interview just the same, as Gil was trying to create
the best set of circumstances for Billy to talk about the case, in private,
free from distractions and peer pressure—setting the stage for a great
interview.
“Okay,” Billy said as he secured his seat belt and relaxed and listened
to an oldies radio channel on the way to the station.
“Do you like oldies, Billy? I listen to soft music all the time, though
I listen to them at a low volume to take away the worries and to easy my
mind. It makes me reflect and focus on the important things of life, to
me, not my friends.” Gil said.
“Yeah, I listen to all kinds of music too.”
“Yes, my understanding is that music cleans the soul and keeps you
young, and out of trouble,” he said as they arrived at the station. He
parked under the carport, and they stepped out of the unit and entered
from the side entrance, not Billy’s usual way of entering a police facility.
“Just follow me to my office, Billy.”
“Okay,” Billy said as he looked around the police facility from a
different perspective; its hallways, doors—entrances to the exits, or in
his case the exits to the entrances—the hung picture frames as though he
was marking landmarks—or avenues of escape—making a right turn,
left turn, right turn, and walking a stretch of the hallway, arriving at
Gil’s office. The chairs were positioned the same way as with Janette, at
arm’s length with empty space in between the two.
“Billy, go ahead and sit there,” Gil said as he waved and pointed to
Billy’s designated chair with his left hand.
“Okay,” Billy said as he dropped into the chair—crossed his arms
over his chest, locking his fingers under his armpits—he leaned back,
confident, as he prepared himself to deflect any sort of culpability.
“Billy, is the music from my laptop too loud? I could turn it
down?”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Do you need anything, maybe water, use the bathroom, something
to eat?” Gil asked.
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Well, if you need anything, let me know. I want for you to be
comfortable, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Look Billy, I wanted to talk to you in private because this is serious
and you’re in serious trouble, too, but that’s going to depend on you and
what you tell me. This is an opportunity to help you, understand?”
“Hey, I didn’t do anything. What’s this all about?” Billy asked as
he sat up, leaned forward—elbows to the knees—and tipped his head
slightly to the floor.
“Earlier, I told you Spider and Janette had been arrested, but what
I hadn’t told you was that you’d been implicated in the murder of John
Garcia; and the physical evidence at the crime scene is going to send you
away to jail for a long time, maybe forever, unless you help yourself,
and tell me your story—the truth is all I want here. I’ve heard their
stories and they had their saying, and they made you out to be the bad
guy, Billy. It doesn’t look good for you.” Unlike Janette, Spider didn’t
admit his involvement, though there weren’t any improprieties when
Gil embellished Spider’s comments and made him to look as though
he’d confessed to the murder—it was fair play in the game of cat and
mouse, and bluffing was one option to convince Billy his days were
numbered.
“I didn’t do anything.” Gil ignored his comment.
“Again, I just want the truth Billy, otherwise if you lie to me I’m
going to have to say in my report that you didn’t cooperate with the
investigation, and that you were untruthful,” Gil said, as Billy listened,
he shifted squeamishly, shifting his posture from side to side in the
chair as though he was trying to reach some sort of comfort that would
never come. “Look, I’m not making you any promises, but the length of
prison time is going to depend on how accurate your information is—I
know the answers—I just want to hear it from you. The story about
John Garcia’s murder, but before you start, I’m going to read you your
Miranda Rights, do you understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” Billy said. “But I didn’t do anything, I didn’t
kill anybody, I’m innocent,” as he feigned and began to cry. His tears
poured out of his tear ducts like a steady waterfall, striking the wooden
chair with a thud. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why I’m here,” he
cried and leaned further between his legs as the tears continued to fall,
now on the carpet, and the thud switched out with a hollow sound.
“Billy, don’t say anything, just hear me out. I know you’re guilty.
I’m just not real sure how guilty you are. I need you to fill in the gaps,
okay? I’ve always known for you to be a good guy—like the way you
take care of your parents—but incorrigible, though you wouldn’t hurt a
fly—I know that much. You’re not the person who leads the crowd, but
rather the kind of person who goes along with the crowd. You probably
didn’t intend to kill John. I don’t know whether it was planned, or it
just happened, but it happened. Hey, maybe you thought he deserved it,
but John Garcia is dead and you killed him. At this point, you’d be the
one to say where your life is going from here, and that is going to be
determined by you. So, I’m giving you the opportunity to help yourself,
understand, otherwise I would’ve gone to your home with a swarm of
police officers in police cars, placed you under arrest and hauled your
ass away to jail, understand? But, I didn’t want to do that. Does that
make any sense, Billy?”
“Yeah, but, I, I, I didn’t do anything,” he cried as he sat up in the
chair. “I wasn’t the one who killed him, okay!” He sighed heavily with
labored breath, as his tears found their way to his open mouth, dangled
over his mustache, and dropped to the floor.
“Look Billy, that’s not true, I know you did it, and I can prove it,”
Gil said.
“What about the others?”
“Look Billy, the others don’t matter right now, but you do, though I
need to read your rights before I decide what to do with you, okay?”
“Okay, but I didn’t do anything, he was already dead.”
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