Authors: William Hutchison
The FallTech 8039 bosun seat was built for safety and reliability. It had a 13-ply Baltic Birch wood seat equipped with sturdy side snaps on which to hang equipment or tools. It had durable 1-3/4” wide polyester webbing suspension straps and an integrated TB body belt, seat and back pad. Two brass D-rings were used to secure the chair to the halyard shackle.
Todd took the seat from Jeff and began to adjust it to his size, ensuring he was snugly and safely in it by tightening the waist belt. Once satisfied it fit, he took the two D-rings and connected them to the halyard shackle, handing Jeff the loose end.
“OK, Jeff, I can’t do this alone. I need you to take this halyard and make a few wraps around the winch drum on the mast. Then put the handle into the winch and crank me up to the top. Whatever you do, don’t let the halyard slip. If you do, it won’t be pretty. Although I’ll have a safety line around the mast in case anything goes wrong, I don’t want to fall.”
Jeff took the halyard line and made a couple wraps around the winch drum. He put the winch handle in and started cranking. Unfortunately, he had wrapped the halyard line the wrong way and instead of lifting Todd, the line went slack and Todd, who had put his weight on the seat, fell to the deck hard on his ass.
“Dammit, Jeff, wrap the halyard the other way.”
Snake Brain was pissed. He wasn’t used to this type of treatment. “Dammit to hell, yourself, you drunken bastard. Don’t yell at me! If you do, you can get someone else to haul your ass up the mast. I mean it. Don’t fucking talk to me that way!”
Jeff let loose of the halyard line again prepared to walk away and have John help Todd up the mast, but because Todd had taken his weight off the chair, he didn’t fall to the deck again when the line went slack.
They were burning daylight and Todd knew it might take him more than thirty minutes to unsnag the jib. He didn’t want to waste time. He had some serious drinking to do when they finally got to the Isthmus.
The blood from the cut over his eye was blurring his vision, and he wiped it away. It stung.
“Sorry, bud! I want to get this done quickly so we can hit the bar at the Isthmus. Wrap it the opposite way, but do it quickly. Take three or four wraps on the winch. That should be enough to hold me. Try it again.”
Snakey wasn’t convinced the apology was real, but Sane Brain kicked in and did as he was told, in spite of the reptile’s protests.
After wrapping the halyard line correctly, Sane Brain started cranking. The snake slithered into the background, letting his alter ego take control.
It only took three cranks on the winch handle until Todd, fully seated in the chair, was six inches off the deck floating freely, suspended on the line, his legs extended, feet placed firmly on the mast for leverage.
Todd took a safety harness out from his tool belt and clipped one end to the leftmost D-rings. He leaned forward and wrapped the safety line around the mast reconnecting it. Using his feet against the mast, he leaned back in the chair and was ready to be cranked to the top. With each crank, he would readjust the safety line inching himself up like the natives in the South Pacific, who use a piece of fabric around their waist and the palm tree to climb to the top to cut down coconuts.
“Ok. I’m ready. Start cranking!” Todd ordered.
Jeff, cranked three or four times and with each crank Todd, leaning back, started walking up the mast.
Todd was now suspended eight feet off the deck.
With each third crank, Jeff was raised higher and higher. When he got to the spreaders about twenty feet up, he had to unloosen the safety line. When he did, he was fully supporting himself on the halyard, bracing himself with his feet on the mast.
At that moment, Arachne lurched sideways from another swell and Todd lost his footing against the mast. He was momentarily suspended in mid-air moving away from the mast quickly. The halyard held, but when Arachne righted herself, he was slammed against the mast, hitting his head against it, re-opening the wound above his right eye.
Blood gushed out, making him momentarily blind.
This new wound opened the gash over his right eye deeper and blood spurted out dripping onto his face falling below towards Jeff. The blood cascaded off his face, was caught in the wind, splattered on the mast and started pooling on the deck.
Four or five drops landed on his face and on his hands, making it difficult to see and hold the halyard.
Arachne lurched again.
Jeff lost his footing when he stepped on the blood spatters. He tried to hold himself but fell backward.
The halyard line slipped from his fingers.
Todd’s safety line, now unattached, was no help.
He fell twenty feet and slammed to the deck landing on his back. The impact was so severe it snapped his spine and shattered his skull.
White brain matter leaked from the back of his head, mixed with his blood and pooled on the deck, finally dripping into the gunnels then into the sea.
He died instantly.
Fred pulled his cruiser into the main parking lot at headquarters. He took the steps two a time brushing past Captain Palmer, who was on his way to Court without saying a word.
Palmer spoke up in spite of being ignored. “Wow, Fred, I’ve never seen you move so fast. Are you in that much of a hurry to retire? We’re still on for a fishing trip in Bridgeport, right?”
“Right, Captain. I can’t talk right now. They found another blonde murdered up in Malibu last night. Surveillance cameras might have captured the perp’s car. I’m going to forensics now to review the tapes. They were a little blurry and the guys in the lab were enhancing them.”
“I heard about that in this morning’s briefing. Carry on. Get the bastard. It’s getting hard to keep the public away from this one. A reporter from the LA Times tried to pigeonhole me yesterday about the case. I put her off, but she’s a stubborn one. I have to meet her later today. The Task Force prepared a statement for me that will provide the public a little of the information we have, but they also caveated it with the standard, ‘this is an on-going investigation BS, and I’m not at liberty to say.’
She’s already found out about two of the other murders. She’s threatened to go public if we don’t give her something to report. They have to sell papers, I guess, but I’m afraid she’ll get all of LA in an uproar.
You know how on slow news days, a story like this can go national in a heartbeat. Look what’s happened all over the US in just the past year. Any time a police agency does something where someone is killed, the press plays the race card. They hate us, even though we’re here to protect and serve. I don’t want that, especially not in this election year.
She’s good.
She’s really good at what she does and I won’t be able to keep her at bay for long. Can you imagine me having to do be interviewed by a national news correspondent from one of the major networks?”
“I’ll do what I can Captain. I’ll keep you informed.”
“Great!” Palmer stated, then turned and left.
Fred got to the forensics lab and two technicians dressed in jeans and pullover shirt were huddled next to a computer. One of the technicians used his mouse and drew a circle around the license plate of the black Mercedes. With three or four keystrokes, he brought the plate into focus.
The other technician went to his computer and typed the plate number into the DMV database.
In seconds, Jeff Dawson’s photo filled the screen.
Fred leaned over. “I’ll be damned! It’s him.”
“Who,” asked the first technician?
“Jeffrey Dawson. I interviewed him a few days ago. He owned a knife similar to the one we found a piece of at the Dockweiler murder scene. It might be a coincidence, but I don’t think so. What are the odds?
Hey, print me out the photo of the car, the license plate, and Jeff’s driver’s license. I’m going to pay him a visit.”
Fred took the photos and dashed down the hall.
In his cruiser, he called for backup and told the detectives to meet him at Dawson’s house.
Fred picked up his cell phone and called Detective Riddick.
“Alvin, do you have anything yet? It’s been over a week.” (Fred needed the information now. If he didn’t get it, he had Alvin’s wife on speed dial and he would tell his wife all he knew. He was a week from retirement and he felt he was only hours from busting this case wide open.)
Riddick hadn’t thought about Fred’s request for days. He was too interested in setting up something with his stripper girlfriend. “Fred, I was just gonna call you! I got a list from the manufacturer of the knife today. It has about a hundred names on it. Who knew that it was so popular?”
“Cut the crap. Is there a Jeff Dawson, or any Dawson for that matter on the list?”
Alvin scanned it. The items were shown by date purchased, not alphabetically. He remained silent while he checked.
Fred got impatient. “Come on, Alvin. I need to know NOW.”
Alvin flipped to the second page and found it.
“Got it, boss! A Jeffrey Dawson bought one of them one month ago. Do you need the address?”
“No. I’ve already been there. I’m headed his way now. Thanks. And by the way, I’m removing your wife’s name from my speed dial. If you hadn’t come through, the next call I was going to make was to her.”
Fred knew immediately Dawson was the Blonde Killer. He thought back to the moment when he was at his place and asked him about the knife. He remembered Jeff offering to go get the knife so Fred would cut his name off the list. Dawson was cooperative---much too cooperative. Something didn’t ring right with Fred then. Now he knew. It was too easy. His gut feeling on meeting Dawson was spot on!
Alvin slammed the phone down and dialed one of his stripper girlfriends. He had a free hall pass now and he intended to use it.
Fred pulled his cruiser up in front of Jeff Dawson’s home. There was a green Volvo parked in front, making it difficult for Fred to park. He had to pull up partly onto the gravel cactus garden that bordered the driveway or risk not being able to get out of his car.
The Volvo driver’s side door was open and there was a trail of blood leading to the front door. A purse was lying open on the front doorstep, its contents strewn out haphazardly as if a small explosive device had gone off inside it. Mascara, change, car keys, old receipts and a wallet littered the sidewalk.
Two other police cars were parked on the opposite side of Pacific Coast Highway and four uniformed officers were stuck waiting for traffic to clear before crossing the busy road and joining Fred.
Fred kneeled down and put his index finger on one of the blood spatters.
It was viscous, but not dried and the day was hot, indicating it was fresh.
He waited for the other officers to join him.
“This doesn’t look good at all,” he said pointing to the blood on the driveway, the purse and the front door to the house, which was ajar.
All five officers drew their weapons. One got on the radio and called into dispatch. “There is a possible crime scene here.” He gave the address. “Put me through to Captain Palmer.”
Dispatch got Palmer on the line.
“We arrived at the Dawson house in Malibu five minutes ago. There’s fresh blood leading from a late model green Volvo License Plate 657DDN to the front door. We request backup, Captain. Things might turn ugly!”
“Secure the perimeter. Wait for SWAT. I don’t want any of you to go inside until SWAT arrives. They’ll be there in 15 minutes. Meanwhile, don’t do anything rash. Contain the situation. If there’s any disturbance or if you think anyone in the house is being held hostage or threatened, you have permission to confront. If the situation remains static, just wait.”
“Roger that, Captain.” The officer said.
“Captain says we’re to wait for SWAT,” he told the other four.
Fred was beside himself. He wanted to see what was going on inside.
The house was quiet—forebodingly so.
Two officers went to the back of the house, which faced the ocean.
Fred and the other two remained out front.
There weren’t any signs of movement in the house.
When the two officers who were securing the back got on the porch, they looked through the sliding glass door into a den. Chairs had been overturned. A glass coffee table was shattered in pieces.
That’s when they saw the victim.
She was naked and spread-eagled on a couch. She was covered in blood. The ligatures were still around her wrists and ankles. Her head was tilted and they could clearly see the crimson necklace of blood running from ear to ear.
The officer who spotted her got on his police radio, switched it to tactical mode, and announced. “There’s a possible homicide victim inside. No other movement.”
Palmer came back on the line. “Hold your positions. SWAT is on the way. I’ll contact the coroner. Repeat! Hold your positions. Do not enter the premises” He then added, “The Volvo belongs to Sherry Dawson, Jeffrey Dawson’s wife.”
It took twenty minutes, not fifteen, for SWAT to arrive. Ten SWAT team members dressed in body armor, carrying ballistic shields, assault rifles and breaching shotguns took positions around the house in case anyone inside decided to make a run for it.
The SWAT commander got on his bullhorn.
“This is the LA SWAT team. The house is surrounded. Come out the front door with your hands, palms up. You have two minutes. If you don’t, we’re coming in after you!”
The seconds counted down.
At a minute and a half, two officers took a position at the front door. One was high. One was low to make it more difficult for anyone inside to get a clean shot.
At two minutes and ten seconds, a third officer kicked the door open and threw three flashbangs into the living room. The flashbangs would disorient anyone inside. He threw two tear gas canisters in as well. The officers surrounding the house broke the windows and did the same.
Four SWAT team members with gas masks on broke the sliding glass door and entered quickly searching from room to room.
After only three minutes, the scene was cleared.
Only one person was in the house, and she was dead.