Frank Zafiro: Some Degree of Murder

“I don’t know. Did she?”

“She never said.”

“She ever come in here with anyone?”

He rolled his eyes up as he thought. “I don’t think so. She was a nice kid though. Polite.”

I searched his eyes and knew he was holding something back. His eyes flicked away from me but quickly returned. “What else?” I asked.

He pointed at the picture. “She didn’t look like that.”

“What’d she look like?”

His tongue darted across his lips before rubbing them together. “Strung out.”

“Dope?”

The big man shrugged. “I don’t know, but she looked like she’d seen better days.”

He rang up my water and I dropped two dollars into his hand. Outside the store, I opened the bottle and took a swig.

River City is divided into four sectors by two streets-Sprague, which runs east to west, and Division, which runs north to south. This makes finding your way around the city fairly easy. The streets south of Sprague run in consecutive numbers. I was three blocks from where the newspaper article in my pocket said she was found.

As far as newspaper articles go there was a lot of speculation and very little facts in the narrative. The detective handling the case was non-committal in his responses. They must train them in the academy to dodge questions. I’d been in town two days and nothing new on her murder was in either the newspaper or on the local news. Another girl was found dead so she was getting the few minutes of airtime devoted to sensational stories. The rest of the time was spent lamenting the city’s current budget crisis and a certain city council member who was discovered to have a lesbian lover.

I headed northbound on Altamont until I found the bingo lot where her body was found. I could smell shit somewhere in the area. The morning sun was out and there was still light dew on the weeds sprinkled around the lot. My nose crinkled reflexively as I tried to shake off the stink.

The article in my pocket said she was found next to a dumpster behind the bingo hall. I walked slowly over to the area, trying hard to keep the anger from boiling over. The only green dumpster stood next to the building and the surrounding fence line. Nothing remained on the ground near the dumpster. I couldn’t determine exactly where she was found. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands and my teeth ground into each other.

The smell of shit dragged me back to reality. I unclenched my fists and checked my shoes to see if I was the one carrying the smell around.

Turning away from the dumpster, I pulled out a soft pack of Camels and shook a cigarette free. I lit it up, hoping to calm my nerves and kill the smell of crap that hung in the area. When it did neither, I left the parking lot.

I wandered the streets, watching the area’s inhabitants and their activity. With black slacks and a polo shirt underneath a clean black jacket, I stood out like a blood stain on white carpet. For that reason I spent some time dropping into a couple of antique shops, a car parts outlet and an adult book store. All of the businesses, especially the sex shop, were dingy and depressing. The clerks stood behind their counters with watchful eyes, waiting for someone to snatch an item and bolt from their shops.

Outside the stores, the eyes of the street were more watchful. Slow moving Buicks with middle-aged men behind the wheels prowled the streets. Their eyes flashed past the blacks who stood in the doorways of defunct businesses, waiting for the right customer to request their product. But the drivers didn’t want dope. They were looking for the drug that only men need.

A number of women and girls in tight skirts sauntered up and down the sidewalks. Their slow walks emphasized their hips and signaled prospects that they were on the menu.

More police cars traveled through this area in a half-hour than I had seen anywhere else in the world. All it told me was that everyone knew the action was down here. And no one seemed to be hiding it.

Near the west end of the Sprague strip, sat a club house for the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross. Four mean looking Harleys stood out front of the square, white building. Heavy steel bars covered the windows and the front door. Two cameras, each at an opposite end, monitored the front of the building. I didn’t walk around to the back, but I was sure there would be cameras around there as well.

Next to the clubhouse was the La Playa Motel and across the street was the Palms Motel. Two low cost stop-and-flops for the hookers and johns. I turned around and stared back down Sprague towards the activity. Cars whizzed past in both directions while the whores and dealers continued their work. Something nagged at me about the area but I couldn’t place it.

I finally shoved the thought to the back of my brain and walked back toward downtown, trying to figure out what the hell my daughter was doing in this part of River City.

TOWER

The smell of fresh coffee caught my attention before Katie MacLeod’s perfume did. I glanced up as she sat the paper coffee cup down on my desk.

“Black,” she said and winked. “With one hazelnut creamer.”

I reached for the cup. “What are you drinking?”

“Foo-foo crap.”

I sipped the java and nodded my thanks. Katie leaned on the edge of my desk. “Can I run one by you?”

”Go ahead.”

“It’s a burglary case,” she told me. She was a detective third grade and worked in the General Investigative Division, which worked property crimes and lower level crimes against persons. After five years, she could promote to second grade. It took a promotion to Major Crimes or the Sexual Assault Unit to make first grade.

“Residential?”

“Yeah. Witness goes over to his friend’s house and as he’s walking up the sidewalk, he sees a guy walking out of the front door of the house with a TV. It’s not his friend, so he yells at the guy. The guy with the TV walks as fast as he can to a Camaro parked on the street, shoves the TV in the back seat, gets in the passenger seat and the car squeals off.”

“He get the plate?”

She shook her head. “Just the color and that there was a dent in the rear bumper. So the witness goes into the house and sees the TV missing and some things tossed around. He waits for his friend, the victim, to get home. When the victim gets home an hour later, they both hop in the victim’s car and start driving around looking for this dark blue Camaro.”

“So?” I asked.

She smiled. “So, they found it.”

“No way.”

She nodded firmly. “Yes, they did. They started driving around to all the pawn shops and right there on Monroe Street, the witness spots the Camaro pulling out of the parking lot of one.”

“How’s he know it’s the same car?”

“Same color,” she said. “Same guy in the passenger seat. And when they start chasing the car, same dented bumper.”

I considered that. “Pretty solid ID in my book.”

She agreed. “They chase the guy, calling 9-1-1 and racing all over the north side until they lose him. But this time, they got the license plate.”

“Good plate?”

“Came back on a 1987 Chevy Camaro, dark blue in color. Registered to Tony McDonald, right here in River City.”

I sipped the coffee. “You talk to him?”

“I called him up and he didn’t know a thing.”

“Why didn’t you bring him in?”

“He works construction in Wenatchee. Only comes home a couple times a month.”

“On the weekend?”

“Right. So I put a little pressure on him. I told him that his car was involved in a burglary and I needed to find out how. He stammers a bit and then tells me this tale about loaning his car to some guy.”