Authors: Connie Dial
Frustrated, Josie finally blurted out, “Allowing that facility to remain open is tacit approval of illicit drug use.”
There was no response from Fletcher for a few seconds while she concentrated on the notebook’s keyboard, a tiny pad that was no match for the councilwoman’s substantial fingers.
“No, it’s not,” she said, calmly, glancing up. “It’s controlling the spread of HIV and hepatitis.”
“What do you base that on?” Josie asked and knew her tone was way too pissed-off to achieve a good outcome.
Fletcher gently closed the notebook and smiled at Josie the way someone does when she knows she can’t lose the argument. “There are studies. Besides, it’s common sense.”
“It’s a huge source of crime in my division. Look at the crime patterns,” Josie said, sliding a copy of a map page with clusters of little red dots across the coffee table toward Fletcher.
“It’s my district; a few property crimes are an acceptable tradeoff to save lives,” Fletcher said, pushing the map away without so much as a glance. “Your officers will have to be more vigilant in that area.”
Josie sat back, took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. She wanted to ask what the point was of being vigilant if you weren’t allowed to make arrests, but instead requested, “Will you, at least, consider moving the trailer to a more remote, industrial area where these addicts won’t be tempted to steal from the neighbors?”
“No, the problem’s here. This is where it’s needed.”
Now they were both quiet. Josie wasn’t going to argue anymore because it was clear Fletcher wasn’t willing to compromise. Josie would order Fricke and the patrol officers in that area to start making arrests closer to the trailer. When Fletcher found out she’d be irate, but Josie decided it was time to challenge the woman.
“Have you made any progress on the Hillary Dennis murder?” Fletcher asked, stuffing her notebook into the briefcase and giving it to her aide. She yawned, leaned back on the couch and crossed her arms. “Eli Goldman’s telling everyone his son’s been cleared because there’s a serial killer. If that’s true, why haven’t I heard it from you?” she asked, frowning but not looking at Josie.
“Nobody’s been cleared, and two similar killings don’t make a serial killer.”
Fletcher wiggled closer to the edge. “Good,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the preppie clipboard aide who came around, braced his leg against the couch, and tugged on her arm, grimacing and straining until the massive woman was standing. “Have you seen Eli’s kid? That’s one messed-up boy . . . not the son you’d want in your family album.” Fletcher yanked on the back of her dress, freeing it from where it stuck between her legs, and snatched the briefcase from her aide.
The councilwoman kept talking until the door to the lobby closed. Josie didn’t accompany her out, but imagined the monologue continuing into the parking lot and all the way back to downtown L.A. She wondered if Fletcher’s remark, “not the son you’d want,” was meant as a reference to Eli Goldman or a warning to her about David. Either way, Josie agreed.
As soon as she got back, her adjutant was waiting near her desk holding a stack of phone messages.
“That one’s from an Internal Affairs guy . . . says he needs to talk to you ASAP, something about the Dennis homicide,” he said, pointing to the one on top.
A sergeant in the Special Operations Division of Internal Affairs wanted to meet with her that afternoon about an investigation involving one of her officers, but wouldn’t tell her any more until they met.
As usual, Josie’s day was slipping away, but she’d managed to get some work done after the councilwoman left. She was returning from a late lunch with Marge when her adjutant warned her he had stashed the I.A. sergeant in her office. He was perusing her wall art and sipping coffee when she entered.
The pale blond man introduced himself and shook her hand. He was tall, overweight, and definitely had been in an office job too long. His grip was damp and flabby. Without asking, he closed her office door and sat in the chair directly in front of her desk.
It might’ve been nervousness, but he never stopped smiling, an irritating Mona Lisa grin that suggested he knew something she didn’t.
“I.A.’s received an anonymous tip that one of your officers is involved in assisting the sale of narcotics at the Palms,” he said and added, “and might’ve had something to do with the Hillary Dennis killing.”
“So did we. We’re looking into it.”
His watery blue eyes widened. “You did? You have an open investigation? I checked; there’s no I.A. number.” He was wiggling, looked confused and then upset he hadn’t surprised her.
“It’s part of a homicide investigation . . . unknown officer.” “
Oh,” he seemed almost relieved. “I’ve got a name.”
Now Josie shifted uncomfortably. “Who?” she asked, annoyed when he’d paused too long.
“Donnie Fricke, he’s a . . .”
She interrupted, “I know who he is. Who’s the informant and exactly what’s the allegation?”
“Anonymous . . . but alleges Fricke and a drug dealer named Little Joe help each other out, and they arranged the Dennis killing.”
“Why would Fricke do that?”
“Dennis was having sex with him. She threatened to expose the arrangement to the department unless she got all her drugs gratis.”
“So, we’ve got some unnamed source and nothing else.”
“Correct,” the sergeant said.
“You’re here to tell me the internal surveillance unit is going to follow Fricke.”
“Also correct.”
“What about his partner Frank Butler?”
“Possible suspect . . . proximity to the subject,” he said, reading from his notes.
Josie realized she was so tense her neck and shoulders had begun to ache. She sat back and tried to relax.
“What do you need from me?” she asked.
“Nothing really. We’ll coordinate with your homicide detectives so we don’t interfere with each other’s investigation. Do you have any concerns or reservations about your detective supervisor’s ability to keep this confidential?”
“Of course not, but Detective Behan should be the only other person in Hollywood division who knows. You haven’t notified the bureau yet, have you?”
“Chief Bright has been briefed.”
Great, Josie thought, you might as well put it on the Internet. Fricke was smart and had developed dozens of sources inside and outside the department. If Bright knew, his adjutant and office staff most likely were aware of the I.A. investigation, too. The surveillance would be a waste of time, which Josie thought was a shame because that would’ve been the best way to find out if Fricke was dirty. She could almost guarantee Fricke would be on his best behavior until I.A. got tired of following him.
She let the man finish his briefing, then directed him back to detectives, knowing Behan would be in her office as soon as the guy left the building. Her detective wasn’t fond of I.A., and she was certain this particular I.A. sergeant wouldn’t impress the cranky redhead. In less than an hour Behan was standing in front of her desk.
“This is never gonna work,” Behan said before she could speak.
“Not with the whole world knowing about it,” she said, gesturing for him to sit.
“Fricke’s too smart. He’ll figure it out before they start. It’s a waste of time.”
“We need to find this Little Joe. Put everybody you can spare on it; use the narcotics squad. Get him in here before he disappears too,” she said. “Better yet, ask Marge Bailey to use her people.”
“She’s already got some of her guys following Mouse.”
“It’s all connected. We’ve got to find him while he’s still breathing. I don’t want Donnie Fricke taking the fall because we’re too inept to catch the real killer.”
Behan looked uncomfortable. He ran his hand over his unruly mop of hair.
“I know you like him, but don’t be too quick to exonerate Fricke,” Behan said, staring at his hands. “I’ve seen better cops than him do some pretty stupid things.”
“I’m not an idiot, Red. You and I both know the difference between someone like Fricke and a bad cop.”
“I’m just saying sometimes guys like Fricke stop knowing the difference.”
She knew he was right, but hated the idea she could be so wrong about someone she trusted.
“What the fuck is that smell?” Behan shouted, jumping up, covering his mouth and nose with both hands.
Josie stared at him for a few seconds until the odor reached her. A stink worse than decomposing bodies suddenly polluted the air. She heard a chorus of groaning, angry voices from her administrative staff before Behan opened her door, and the full impact of the disgusting stench hit her.
“We opened all the doors and put some fans in the hallway. They’re gonna stick him in the showers and give him some clothes from the bin,” the uniformed watch commander said, talking through a paper towel covering his nose and mouth.
“What the hell is he?” Behan asked, coughing.
“Some homeless guy. The officers said they picked him up for you . . . Roy something,” the lieutenant said, lifting the paper a little to test the air.
Josie left them in the watch commander’s office and joined most of the division’s personnel in the parking lot. She’d been around a lot of bums, but Roy Mitchell was without a doubt the most wretched-smelling human being who was still breathing. Standing in the clean air, she took several long, deep breaths in an attempt to get the man’s body odor out of her nostrils. Her stomach was churning, and she was grateful she hadn’t eaten enough to vomit.
Thirty minutes later the faint odor of Roy Mitchell still lingered in the station, but the homeless man was sitting in the interview room with dripping wet clean hair and his leathery skin scrubbed almost clean by the hard antiseptic jail soap. His hands and nails and the tiny crevices in his stubbled face still had traces of caked dirt, but the horrible smell was gone. Josie watched as Behan sat across the table from Mitchell, who readily admitted living in the box in the alley behind the bar where Misty Skylar was killed.
“I seen the lady and two guys come outta the bar,” Mitchell said, sucking on his lip as he spoke. Two of his upper teeth were missing, and he had a nervous, annoying habit of drawing his lip into the vacuum.
“Had you seen any of them before?” Behan asked.
“Nope, but nobody ’cept the bar lady hardly never comes out that way. I was tryin’ to sleep, but they’re yellin’ an’ I start to crawl outta my box to tell ’em to get the fuck outta my alley when I sees this lady on her knees, an’ next thing there’s this bang and she falls over . . .”
“Hold on,” Behan said, interrupting. “Not so fast. Take your time so you don’t skip anything.”
Mitchell was getting increasingly anxious as he told his story, tugging at his hair and leaning on the table until he could nearly touch Behan.
“Bad dudes,” Mitchell mumbled. He slumped back and scratched his head. Josie and Behan both backed away. Red was probably thinking the same thing she was. The man had head lice. Even the potent jail soap couldn’t kill those little critters.
Behan coaxed as many details as he could from the homeless man. Mitchell had seen two men arguing with Misty Skylar. He wasn’t always coherent. At first, he couldn’t identify them, and then a few minutes later maybe he could and remembered the shooter was a big man, at least a foot taller than Misty. The shooter took the gun from what looked like a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. The men dragged the dead woman from where she died and propped her against the back wall of the bar. They were laughing as they arranged the body and tossed her shoes and purse in the dumpster.
“The big one he spots my box, an’ come over where I’m laying. I act dead drunk . . . fucker kicks me in the stomach anyhow . . . hurt real bad, but I don’t scream or nothing, don’t do nothing.”
“He left you there?” Josie asked.
“Yeah, laughs, got a ugly laugh, says I must be dead ’cuz no live man stinks so bad, like a pile a dog shit, he says.”
“Can you remember anything about him or the other guy? You see a car or unique jewelry? Did they talk funny, have an accent or anything? Were they black or white?” Behan asked. Josie could hear the frustration in his voice, the need for precious details.
“Both of ’em white dudes, I think. Other one’s kinda pretty though, like a big woman, but sounded like a guy,” Mitchell said. “The way they talk I kinda figured they might be cops.”
He avoided direct eye contact with Behan and nervously rubbed the back of his arm as his lip-sucking accelerated. Clearly, Josie thought, he believed the men were cops, and it was difficult for him to talk about it.
“What do you mean?” Behan asked, looking up at Josie. “
Dunno,” he mumbled. “Just kinda figured they was cops, the way you guys move and stuff . . . him having the gun under his coat ’n’ all.”
Now Mitchell rocked a bit back and forth, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. He was scared, and it had probably taken every remnant of courage he possessed to reveal that last piece of information. Josie didn’t know what her detective thought, but she believed the man. Street people had an uncanny talent for knowing the police.
They tried to get the bum’s wine-soaked brain to remember more, but it was futile. Roy Mitchell said he hadn’t returned to his box in the alley because he was afraid those men would come back and kill him. He hadn’t gone to the police station because he was afraid if the killers were cops, other cops would kill him.
“So why talk to us now?” Josie asked.
“I kin see you ain’t no badass, lady. There’s some . . .” He stopped and rubbed his face with both hands. “No matter,” he said relaxing a little.
“If we find you a safe place, will you stay there? We’ll need you to identify these guys if we ever catch them,” Josie said.
Mitchell wiggled and stood, almost knocking over the chair. “No, can’t sleep inside, can’t breathe. Jus’ let me be . . . can’t help no more than what I done.”
“If they think you’re a witness, those guys might hunt you down and kill you the next time,” she said, trying to scare him.
“Gotta find me first,” Mitchell said with a toothless grin.
Behan escorted the homeless man back to the jail, where they rummaged through the unclaimed clothes pile and found him a heavy parka and a change of clothes, including a decent pair of boots. Josie watched Mitchell leave the police building with a bundle tucked under his arm. His new wardrobe also included leather gloves and a wool cap. Behan stood on the sidewalk a few moments until Mitchell wandered across Sunset Boulevard, and then he came back into the station shaking his head and stopped near the front counter where Josie was waiting.