Episode 8
By five-thirty in the morning the crime scene was nothing but an empty parking lot with a dumpster pushed up against the fence. Matthew Hauser's body had been taken to the coroner's building, and his car had been tow to the police garage for the technicians to go over ithe. Yellow plastic tape with the words "Crime Scene - Do Not Cross" repeated printed on it hung slackly across the parking lot anchored by the dumpster at one end and one corner of the Ruslter's Roost at the other.
Tate stood outside the crime scene talking to Sergeant Washington and Officer O'Connor.
"nothing in the dumpster?" he asked O'Connor.
"No sir. Nothing but paper trash, garbage and cockroaches."
"Thanks for your effort. We'll have the techs take a closer look at it and let them get really dirty. I'm sure Sergeant Washington wouldn't object to your heading back to the station for a shower and change of clothes>"
Sergeant Washington nodded in agreement.
"Thanks, Lieutenant. Sergeant."
"And don't forget to write up as thorough as report as you can. Try not to leave anything out, no matter how small. You know the drill. Catch a ride with Sanchez and Marsh. I'm going to have to talk to Sergeant Washington for a while longer."
O'Connor walked toward Sanchez and Marsh, each of whom theatrically pinched his nose as O'Connor climbed into the back of their patrol car. All the windows of the car were rolled down by the time the car was moving.
"Do you have the time to attend a sit down with my guys before you go head home. I'd like you in on this."
"No problem. Anita's staying with her sister for the month. Nothing to go home to but a goldfish and and the idiot box."
"Good. You know where Uncle Bud's is? We'll get together there in an hour for a working breakfast."
"Okay. I'll be there."
"Good. I appreciate it. See you there."
Tate walked over to the dumpster and got down on his hands and knees to look under it. Nothing. The, on chance, he looked in the channels welded to the sides of the dumpster that were used to receive the forks of the trash truck for lifting. He shined his penlight down one and saw something small, black and metal resting half way down the length of the channel. Instead of pulling it out he walked to the two patrolmen who were guarding the scene.
"Make sure you two keep this scene tight until after the techs leave. Keep the ghouls away and say nothing to anyone. And when the techs get here tell them that the gun is probably stuck in one of the lifting channels of the dumpster. You'll look like geniuses when the techs find it."
Tate walked to his car while trying to remember how to activate the speed dial on his cell phone.
*****
Uncle Bud's sat in the middle of an industrial park not far from Rustler's Roost. A squat beige stucco building with plate glass windows facing the street and a lattice covered patio at the read, it opened at 4:00 AM and closed at 2:00 in the afternoon. It specialized in big breakfasts and lunches with enough fat and cholesterol to be declared the most dangerous restaurant in Sycamore Grove by the local Heart Association.
Two tables on the patio had been pushed together, and the arrangement was surrounded by five men and a woman, all eating breakfast and drinking black coffee from heavy beige mugs. Tate sat at the head of the table, Sergeant Washington at the foot as if they were two cattle dogs controlling the herd. Tate pushed his plate away, leaned back and started tapping the bit of his pipe against his teeth.
"Well?' he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Do you really think that Hauser's murder will cause such a big stink?" Detective Kelly Stewart asked. "It's not like he was a big movie star or politician. He was just a preacher on TV. Nobody watches those guys except old ladies who dress their chihuahuas like clowns."
"Would you care to enlighten Detective Stewart, Sergeant Washington?"
Sergeant Washington folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked directly at Detective Stewart.
"There is a segment of Christianity in the US that receives all its churching from television, and it's not just old ladies with little dogs. I don't know how many people are in that group,but they make the devil's own racket when they decide they've been done dirty. Matthew Hauser was the new fair haired-boy for them; their rising star who was going to bring the word to heel for Jesus and teach them how to live well and prosper. When the news of Hauser's murder hits the news these people will accuse us of chasing rover because we haven't arrested, tried, convicted and executed some Satanist by lunch That is, if they don't accuse us of being complacent in the crime by not preventing it - especially since the man was killed, as far as we know, at that den of sin called the Rustler's Roost."
"Oh, come on," Stewart snorted. "How many of those people can there be?"
"More than you'd think. When you're out driving around keep an eye out for a bumper sticker that says: 'Today is Yours!' Those are the people who sent Hauser money for his ministry. Multiply that by ten or fifteen and you may get an idea of how many people watch him regularly.
"Then there's another group of Christians who may have not watched Hauser or nor agreed with his theology or his message message. They may even see him as a wold dressed in virgin wool among lambs, but his murder will set off a start like ducks seeing a decoy blasted. Just watch the news for the next couple of days. Read the rags. You'll hear preachers, priests, maybe even a rabbi or two worrying over Hauser's murder and if it portends a secular attack on the Faith that a famous preacher can be gunned down pretty much in public. And after you've read those quotes keep in mind that yesterday these same guys, in private and sometimes in public, would have been saying that Rev. Matt was a faith hustler, a pulpit pimp, a rotten fake who they wouldn't have given the time of day to, let alone support. They'll close ranks when they see that the prodigal has been cut down before he had a chance to straighten up."
"How do you know so much about it?"
"It's my hobby."
"And there's one more thing, boys and girls," Tate said through a cloud of smoke. "The media. Stories like this are meat to them. A TV preacher found shot outside a strip club. Religion. Money. Sex. They'll think they've hit the trifecta. Images of collection plates followed by images of dollar bill being stuck into G-strings. They only thing better for those jackals would be for Cardinal O'Leary to be found dead in a male brothel wearing a blond beehive wig and high heels."
"Dio mio!" Garza laughed. "That's a scary thought. I'm surprised Marcia hasn't called you already."
"By the end of the day, old vato.Bet on it."
"Who's Marcia?" Detective Jason Chen asked.
"My ex-wife. She's an assistant news director at Channel 9 News. She's married to Scott Chamberlain."
"The news anchor guy? I can't stand that guy. All teeth."
Instead of commenting Tate tamped his pipe, re-lit it and blew a thick jet of smoke into the air. He watched it dissipate and then looked at his crew.
"Enough of this frivolity. We've got two big deals going one here: Hauser. The Hoodie. I suspect that the Hauser killing is a one off. But the powers that be will be pushing us on it. The Hoodie is, in my opinion, much more dangerous. If we don't stop him he'll kill. And then kill again. But dead Korean store owners aren't news. Sergeant Garza and I have racked our brains over this guy. It needs new blood. I'm putting Beaulieu and Stewart on the Hoodie. Garza and I will give you our notes. Maybe you two can see what we can't. You two have a free hand. Lean. Squeeze. Bargain if you have to. Pick the brains of the gang unit. Just keep it legal and keep me informed."
"I've got a few ideas," Beaulieu said looking distastefully at a slice of toast. "I know that it's not been my case, but I've been keeping up with it."
"Good. Garza, Chen and I will be on Hauser. I'll try to get as much work in on the Hoodie as I can. But as unfortunate as it may seem, we have to put on a show for the pols and the press. Sergeant Washington will be our unofficial advisor on things religious, if that's okay with you, Sergeant."
"It's jake by me. I take it that there's no extra pay for my advisory status."
"Unfortunately, you're right. Want me to talk to the Chief and see what I can wring out of him?"
"Don't bother. I need something to think about during my time off and this is it."
"Does anyone have any questions?"
"Yeah," Garza said. "Who's paying for breakfast?"
"You are, compadre."
"Me? I'm just a pobrisito," Garza laughed as he reached for his wallet.
"One thing I want to emphasize to all of you. Do not talk to the media about Hauser. Don't talk to anyone about Hauser who you think might talk to the media. That's Jim Douglas' job.
"Let's weigh anchor and get underway."
****
Tate pocketed his still smoldering pipe into his jacket pocket before walking into the police station. Garza and Chen headed to their desks to write up their preliminary reports while Tate knocked on the door of the Chief of Detectives. He didn't wait before entering.
Captain Aaron White sat at his desk, jacket off and shirt sleeve rolled up, with a stack of police reports in front of him. The gold frames of his glasses flashed as he turned toward Tate.
"I suppose you've heard about what happened at the Rustler's Roost this morning."
"Oh yeah. I was reading Sanchez's report."
"Did you recognize the name of the victim."
"How could I not? My sister sends that clown a 'love gift' every month. This'll put her in a bad mood."
"Her and a lot of other people. Listen, I'd like you to put as much of a news embargo on this things as you think you can get away with."
"Why?"
"If the media wants a circus let them have a circus. There's no point in us pitching the tent for them. On deals like this they're not interested in justice. They're interested in clowns and freaks"
"I see your point. We don't want to get Arbuckled on this. I'll talk to the Chief and Douglas and see what I can do."
"Thanks."
"let's hope that you can get this wrapped up by the five o'clock news," White said in a voice heavy with irony. "Otherwise they'll be calling us the Keystone Kops."
"Who knows? Maybe the guy will turn himself in and have a big pentagram tattooed on his forehead."
"We can only hope."
****
"Which of you wants to witness the autopsy?" Tate looked at Garza and Chen. Neither replied.
"Okay. Who wants to help interview the grieving widow?"
Garza sighed deeply. "I'll go to the autopsy. I'm not much good at the grieving widow thing."
"Good. Thanks. And as a reward you get to interview Angel Grant. Here's her address. Try to get there before noon so you get her sleepy."
"All right! Things are looking up. I just hope mi esposa doesn't find out that I'm spending time with that chica caliente."
"My lips are sealed, Sancho."
"Oh, Cisco!"
****
Chen drove the unmarked police car south on Norwood while Tate watched the scenery change.Chen had suggested that they take the freeway, but Tate said that there was no hurry and he wanted time to think. Tate dreaded interviewing the relatives of murder victims. It was always sad and always unpredictable. He'd had women faint dead away while he talked to them, men throw punches, women throw vases, people throw up, others become almost catatonic. Mostly they were confused and bewildered and grief stricken, wondering how someone could be alive one moment and then suddenly not alive due to nothing more than a small piece of lead or a length of steel or a fist or a boot cap.
Tate always found the transition between Sycamore Grove and Horseshoe Beach. When he was a child and young man the southern end of Sycamore Grove had been called "the rich part of town." The houses were larger, the clipped lawns more verdant than those of the identical stucco boxes planted on small lots in the tract where he grew up. In the south end there was a sense of space that seemed to speak of languorous summer days sitting quietly in a front porch drinking iced lemonade on hot days instead of trying to keep cool under a tattered patio umbrella in a treeless backyard hearing one neighbor's dog barking on one side and a radio blaring country western music from the other neighbor while drinking a warm Orange Crush out of a bottle.
At that time Horseshoe Beach was known for its commercial flower farms and the Seabreeze Dairy Co-Operative. The dairies had been just over the city line from Sycamore Grove and Norwood ran through the center of one of the larger dairies. Tate had spent a lot of time on his bicycle riding to the beach to go swimming or fishing, and had always stopped to and from to look at and pet through the fences the Holsteins that watched him so gravely.
Now, instead of cows, he was greeted by office complexes, a large upscale shopping mall and gated communities that fed or demanded the thick traffic on the broad boulevard that had been a road. Eucalyptus, silkfloss and jacaranda marched down a center divider of green turf eventually giving way to queen date palms a mile from the Coast Highway.
"Do you know the way to Hauser's place" Tate asked while flipping through a mapbook.
"I know where the street is. Seathrift, isn't it? It's up in the Heights."
"Have you ever been to Hauser's church. What's it called? The Lakeland Community Worship Center."
"Nah. I've seen it. Lots of money there. We go to the Chinese Presbyterian Fellowship in Los Alisos It's odd, isn't it?"
"What's odd?"
"That nowadays so many of what used to be called churches are now colled something else. Worship centers. fellowships. chapels. It's almost like 'church' is a bad word for some people. Like it's out of date or something."
"I suppose for some people it is. Maybe it reminds them of something they've lost or never had."
"And what might that be?"
"Faith in the Gospel, perhaps. Maybe they have more faith in the acts of fellowship or worship than they do in Christ. Understand, I don't mean to disparage the Chinese Presbyterian Fellowship. I know you didn't name it."
"May I ask a question that's probably none of my business?"
"Go ahead."
Tate stood outside the crime scene talking to Sergeant Washington and Officer O'Connor.
"nothing in the dumpster?" he asked O'Connor.
"No sir. Nothing but paper trash, garbage and cockroaches."
"Thanks for your effort. We'll have the techs take a closer look at it and let them get really dirty. I'm sure Sergeant Washington wouldn't object to your heading back to the station for a shower and change of clothes>"
Sergeant Washington nodded in agreement.
"Thanks, Lieutenant. Sergeant."
"And don't forget to write up as thorough as report as you can. Try not to leave anything out, no matter how small. You know the drill. Catch a ride with Sanchez and Marsh. I'm going to have to talk to Sergeant Washington for a while longer."
O'Connor walked toward Sanchez and Marsh, each of whom theatrically pinched his nose as O'Connor climbed into the back of their patrol car. All the windows of the car were rolled down by the time the car was moving.
"Do you have the time to attend a sit down with my guys before you go head home. I'd like you in on this."
"No problem. Anita's staying with her sister for the month. Nothing to go home to but a goldfish and and the idiot box."
"Good. You know where Uncle Bud's is? We'll get together there in an hour for a working breakfast."
"Okay. I'll be there."
"Good. I appreciate it. See you there."
Tate walked over to the dumpster and got down on his hands and knees to look under it. Nothing. The, on chance, he looked in the channels welded to the sides of the dumpster that were used to receive the forks of the trash truck for lifting. He shined his penlight down one and saw something small, black and metal resting half way down the length of the channel. Instead of pulling it out he walked to the two patrolmen who were guarding the scene.
"Make sure you two keep this scene tight until after the techs leave. Keep the ghouls away and say nothing to anyone. And when the techs get here tell them that the gun is probably stuck in one of the lifting channels of the dumpster. You'll look like geniuses when the techs find it."
Tate walked to his car while trying to remember how to activate the speed dial on his cell phone.
*****
Uncle Bud's sat in the middle of an industrial park not far from Rustler's Roost. A squat beige stucco building with plate glass windows facing the street and a lattice covered patio at the read, it opened at 4:00 AM and closed at 2:00 in the afternoon. It specialized in big breakfasts and lunches with enough fat and cholesterol to be declared the most dangerous restaurant in Sycamore Grove by the local Heart Association.
Two tables on the patio had been pushed together, and the arrangement was surrounded by five men and a woman, all eating breakfast and drinking black coffee from heavy beige mugs. Tate sat at the head of the table, Sergeant Washington at the foot as if they were two cattle dogs controlling the herd. Tate pushed his plate away, leaned back and started tapping the bit of his pipe against his teeth.
"Well?' he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Do you really think that Hauser's murder will cause such a big stink?" Detective Kelly Stewart asked. "It's not like he was a big movie star or politician. He was just a preacher on TV. Nobody watches those guys except old ladies who dress their chihuahuas like clowns."
"Would you care to enlighten Detective Stewart, Sergeant Washington?"
Sergeant Washington folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked directly at Detective Stewart.
"There is a segment of Christianity in the US that receives all its churching from television, and it's not just old ladies with little dogs. I don't know how many people are in that group,but they make the devil's own racket when they decide they've been done dirty. Matthew Hauser was the new fair haired-boy for them; their rising star who was going to bring the word to heel for Jesus and teach them how to live well and prosper. When the news of Hauser's murder hits the news these people will accuse us of chasing rover because we haven't arrested, tried, convicted and executed some Satanist by lunch That is, if they don't accuse us of being complacent in the crime by not preventing it - especially since the man was killed, as far as we know, at that den of sin called the Rustler's Roost."
"Oh, come on," Stewart snorted. "How many of those people can there be?"
"More than you'd think. When you're out driving around keep an eye out for a bumper sticker that says: 'Today is Yours!' Those are the people who sent Hauser money for his ministry. Multiply that by ten or fifteen and you may get an idea of how many people watch him regularly.
"Then there's another group of Christians who may have not watched Hauser or nor agreed with his theology or his message message. They may even see him as a wold dressed in virgin wool among lambs, but his murder will set off a start like ducks seeing a decoy blasted. Just watch the news for the next couple of days. Read the rags. You'll hear preachers, priests, maybe even a rabbi or two worrying over Hauser's murder and if it portends a secular attack on the Faith that a famous preacher can be gunned down pretty much in public. And after you've read those quotes keep in mind that yesterday these same guys, in private and sometimes in public, would have been saying that Rev. Matt was a faith hustler, a pulpit pimp, a rotten fake who they wouldn't have given the time of day to, let alone support. They'll close ranks when they see that the prodigal has been cut down before he had a chance to straighten up."
"How do you know so much about it?"
"It's my hobby."
"And there's one more thing, boys and girls," Tate said through a cloud of smoke. "The media. Stories like this are meat to them. A TV preacher found shot outside a strip club. Religion. Money. Sex. They'll think they've hit the trifecta. Images of collection plates followed by images of dollar bill being stuck into G-strings. They only thing better for those jackals would be for Cardinal O'Leary to be found dead in a male brothel wearing a blond beehive wig and high heels."
"Dio mio!" Garza laughed. "That's a scary thought. I'm surprised Marcia hasn't called you already."
"By the end of the day, old vato.Bet on it."
"Who's Marcia?" Detective Jason Chen asked.
"My ex-wife. She's an assistant news director at Channel 9 News. She's married to Scott Chamberlain."
"The news anchor guy? I can't stand that guy. All teeth."
Instead of commenting Tate tamped his pipe, re-lit it and blew a thick jet of smoke into the air. He watched it dissipate and then looked at his crew.
"Enough of this frivolity. We've got two big deals going one here: Hauser. The Hoodie. I suspect that the Hauser killing is a one off. But the powers that be will be pushing us on it. The Hoodie is, in my opinion, much more dangerous. If we don't stop him he'll kill. And then kill again. But dead Korean store owners aren't news. Sergeant Garza and I have racked our brains over this guy. It needs new blood. I'm putting Beaulieu and Stewart on the Hoodie. Garza and I will give you our notes. Maybe you two can see what we can't. You two have a free hand. Lean. Squeeze. Bargain if you have to. Pick the brains of the gang unit. Just keep it legal and keep me informed."
"I've got a few ideas," Beaulieu said looking distastefully at a slice of toast. "I know that it's not been my case, but I've been keeping up with it."
"Good. Garza, Chen and I will be on Hauser. I'll try to get as much work in on the Hoodie as I can. But as unfortunate as it may seem, we have to put on a show for the pols and the press. Sergeant Washington will be our unofficial advisor on things religious, if that's okay with you, Sergeant."
"It's jake by me. I take it that there's no extra pay for my advisory status."
"Unfortunately, you're right. Want me to talk to the Chief and see what I can wring out of him?"
"Don't bother. I need something to think about during my time off and this is it."
"Does anyone have any questions?"
"Yeah," Garza said. "Who's paying for breakfast?"
"You are, compadre."
"Me? I'm just a pobrisito," Garza laughed as he reached for his wallet.
"One thing I want to emphasize to all of you. Do not talk to the media about Hauser. Don't talk to anyone about Hauser who you think might talk to the media. That's Jim Douglas' job.
"Let's weigh anchor and get underway."
****
Tate pocketed his still smoldering pipe into his jacket pocket before walking into the police station. Garza and Chen headed to their desks to write up their preliminary reports while Tate knocked on the door of the Chief of Detectives. He didn't wait before entering.
Captain Aaron White sat at his desk, jacket off and shirt sleeve rolled up, with a stack of police reports in front of him. The gold frames of his glasses flashed as he turned toward Tate.
"I suppose you've heard about what happened at the Rustler's Roost this morning."
"Oh yeah. I was reading Sanchez's report."
"Did you recognize the name of the victim."
"How could I not? My sister sends that clown a 'love gift' every month. This'll put her in a bad mood."
"Her and a lot of other people. Listen, I'd like you to put as much of a news embargo on this things as you think you can get away with."
"Why?"
"If the media wants a circus let them have a circus. There's no point in us pitching the tent for them. On deals like this they're not interested in justice. They're interested in clowns and freaks"
"I see your point. We don't want to get Arbuckled on this. I'll talk to the Chief and Douglas and see what I can do."
"Thanks."
"let's hope that you can get this wrapped up by the five o'clock news," White said in a voice heavy with irony. "Otherwise they'll be calling us the Keystone Kops."
"Who knows? Maybe the guy will turn himself in and have a big pentagram tattooed on his forehead."
"We can only hope."
****
"Which of you wants to witness the autopsy?" Tate looked at Garza and Chen. Neither replied.
"Okay. Who wants to help interview the grieving widow?"
Garza sighed deeply. "I'll go to the autopsy. I'm not much good at the grieving widow thing."
"Good. Thanks. And as a reward you get to interview Angel Grant. Here's her address. Try to get there before noon so you get her sleepy."
"All right! Things are looking up. I just hope mi esposa doesn't find out that I'm spending time with that chica caliente."
"My lips are sealed, Sancho."
"Oh, Cisco!"
****
Chen drove the unmarked police car south on Norwood while Tate watched the scenery change.Chen had suggested that they take the freeway, but Tate said that there was no hurry and he wanted time to think. Tate dreaded interviewing the relatives of murder victims. It was always sad and always unpredictable. He'd had women faint dead away while he talked to them, men throw punches, women throw vases, people throw up, others become almost catatonic. Mostly they were confused and bewildered and grief stricken, wondering how someone could be alive one moment and then suddenly not alive due to nothing more than a small piece of lead or a length of steel or a fist or a boot cap.
Tate always found the transition between Sycamore Grove and Horseshoe Beach. When he was a child and young man the southern end of Sycamore Grove had been called "the rich part of town." The houses were larger, the clipped lawns more verdant than those of the identical stucco boxes planted on small lots in the tract where he grew up. In the south end there was a sense of space that seemed to speak of languorous summer days sitting quietly in a front porch drinking iced lemonade on hot days instead of trying to keep cool under a tattered patio umbrella in a treeless backyard hearing one neighbor's dog barking on one side and a radio blaring country western music from the other neighbor while drinking a warm Orange Crush out of a bottle.
At that time Horseshoe Beach was known for its commercial flower farms and the Seabreeze Dairy Co-Operative. The dairies had been just over the city line from Sycamore Grove and Norwood ran through the center of one of the larger dairies. Tate had spent a lot of time on his bicycle riding to the beach to go swimming or fishing, and had always stopped to and from to look at and pet through the fences the Holsteins that watched him so gravely.
Now, instead of cows, he was greeted by office complexes, a large upscale shopping mall and gated communities that fed or demanded the thick traffic on the broad boulevard that had been a road. Eucalyptus, silkfloss and jacaranda marched down a center divider of green turf eventually giving way to queen date palms a mile from the Coast Highway.
"Do you know the way to Hauser's place" Tate asked while flipping through a mapbook.
"I know where the street is. Seathrift, isn't it? It's up in the Heights."
"Have you ever been to Hauser's church. What's it called? The Lakeland Community Worship Center."
"Nah. I've seen it. Lots of money there. We go to the Chinese Presbyterian Fellowship in Los Alisos It's odd, isn't it?"
"What's odd?"
"That nowadays so many of what used to be called churches are now colled something else. Worship centers. fellowships. chapels. It's almost like 'church' is a bad word for some people. Like it's out of date or something."
"I suppose for some people it is. Maybe it reminds them of something they've lost or never had."
"And what might that be?"
"Faith in the Gospel, perhaps. Maybe they have more faith in the acts of fellowship or worship than they do in Christ. Understand, I don't mean to disparage the Chinese Presbyterian Fellowship. I know you didn't name it."
"May I ask a question that's probably none of my business?"
"Go ahead."
posted by Hitz at 4:25 PM
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