Authors: Mark Young
He sat down to file his report on the killing. The report was scrawled in code just like the message he’d received. A splotch of dried blood on his trigger finger caught his eye as he wrote. He’d scrub himself in the shower before crashing. The sun was beginning to rise as he finished the report; the protection of night slipping away with the darkness.
Tom Kagan heard it in the pitch and tone of the officer’s first words.
“10-55. Request VCI and Gangs.
” The officer’s words told Tom all he needed to know. He was out the door with jacket and portable radio in hand before the transmission squelched to an end.
A blistering September sun temporarily blinded him as he searched for his car among a stable of unmarks. The detective winced as he slid behind the wheel. The dark blue-on-blue Ford Crown Vic soaked in the heat like a dark oven. As he started the car he felt like he was sitting inside a sauna. A stifling breeze swept over him as he rolled down all the windows. His shirt, trapped between his backside and the plastic seat cover, was drenched with sweat.
“Six-Sam-One. Contact Dispatch.”
He jumped as the radio call blasted through the speaker. Someone had left the volume on high. He scrambled to turn it down before he lost what little hearing he had left. Picking up the mike, he acknowledged the call.
Tom flipped open his cell phone and punched the numbers for dispatch. A woman answered on the second ring, cutting him off in mid-sentence as she transferred his call. He listened for a moment to elevator music as his call was routed to another desk. Another woman’s voice came on line.
“Tom, kids called in a dead body near Round Barn Boulevard off Fountain Grove. Abandoned buildings.You want to take this or hand it off to one of your gang officers?” She paused, leaving the line open as Tom listened to her acknowledge another caller on the radio. In a moment, she was back. “Sorry. Dispatch is slammed. Patrol’s screaming for VCI and the gang guys from the Intelligence Unit—that’d be you, Sergeant.” She filled him in on more details.
Tom cut her off. “I know the location and heard the call go out. I’m on my way.”
He eyed the air-conditioning switch with disgust as he slid the cell phone back into his pocket. The yard promised to have it fixed in a day or two. That was three weeks ago. At this rate they’d fix it by winter at which time the heater would take a dump.
He turned east off Mendocino Avenue and began to climb into the hills. Round Barn Boulevard, like a giant horsehoe, began and ended on Fountain Grove Parkway. The crime scene lay in the middle of this horseshoe. Strange place for a gang killing. Only the rich and well off lived up here.
As he adjusted the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of a familiar stranger with dark brown eyes looking back. The reflection showed baggy eyes, gray flecks in otherwise blond hair, and the beginning of crow’s feet marching across a weathered face.
Tom, you’ve become an old fart.
He spotted several patrol cars ahead as he pulled off Round Barn and followed a gravel road. Waves of heat rose into the air and played tricks on his eyes. For a moment, the patrol cars seemed to shimmer like a mirage across a desert floor.
Tom pulled off the roadway, parked, and began walking down a well-worn path to where he knew the crime scene was hidden. As he walked closer, he saw a man in a black sports shirt standing alongside the path. On the back of the man’s shirt was printed
Santa Rosa Police Gang Enforcement Team
in large white letters. As Tom drew closer, the man abruptly turned and sauntered toward him with a smile on his face
“Took the long way around, Tom? I beat you by half an hour.”
Tom grinned. “Detective Bill Stevenson. You drove Code 3 to work for the best—
Me! I’m touched”
“That you are, my boy. Touched.” Stevenson laughed. A sly grin crept across his face. “Dispatch said you couldn’t figure this out by yourself. Since you’re a desk jockey, you needed someone like me—with real gang expertise—to bail you out.”
“Well, they got their wires crossed, but I’m glad you’re here anyway.”
Bill’s tanned face carried a look of youthfulness that seemed to wage a successful war against time. He was a decade behind Tom and he looked even younger.
Tom wiped his brow. “Mary and Jonathan doing fine?”
Bill gave him the smile of a proud husband and father. “They’re doing great. Mary’s busy with Jonathan at his school. I’m supposed to swing by and help my son practice for Little League tryouts later this afternoon. They’re not until next year, but he wants to get in as much practice as his old man will allow. I can’t wait—” Bill stopped in mid-sentence as if his words slammed into a brick wall.
Tom glanced away.
“I’m sorry, Tom—”
“Forget it.”
The two men stared down the pathway toward the crime scene. Canary-yellow tape was stretched across the path to prevent pedestrians from venturing further. A gust of warm wind caused the tape to flutter in the breeze like the tail end of a kite trying to reach into the heavens. More wind-swept tape crossed the path another hundred yards further. Charred remains of what once was part of a farm stood between the tape like blackened markers to a grave site. A group of officers huddled together near one of the blackened edifices.
Tom watched the officers talking among themselves. “You’ve seen the body?”
Bill cleared his throat before speaking. “Not yet. Off to the right of those guys is where they dumped the body. First officer on the scene says he saw gang-related tats on the dead guy. I was just waiting ‘til you got here. Didn’t want to screw up the crime scene. Least ‘til I could blame it on you.”
Tom tried to smile. “Always with the jokes.” He saw a flicker of concern in the other man’s eyes. He hated that look—especially from his friends. Tom forced his mind to focus, to forget everything else but the job at hand. Another dead body beckoned him. Gang members killing gang members Another death gave him a reason to live.
“Come on, partner. Let’s get this thing over with.”
T
he defense attorney glanced at his desk phone. The private line directly into his office lit up, ringing incessantly without stopping. He quickly closed the door to his office and dashed back to his desk.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me. Your
friend
from the police department.” He instantly recognized the voice.
“Talk to me.”
“Are you a fortune teller? We got units responding to a gang hit, just like you thought might happen. How’d you know?”
“A little bird. Tell me details.”
“A guy with NF tattoos was wasted up on the hill off Round Barn Boulevard. They’re not sure who he is. They asked for a gang expert to respond. Is this a Nuestra Familia hit?”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” the attorney asked, ignoring the question.
“Kagan. Tom Kagan.”
“Thanks. Let me know anything you can on the investigation. Who they talk to, whatever. You know the drill. There’ll be an extra Christmas bonus for anything you turn up.”
“Cash, right? Catch you later, J.C.”
The attorney hung up without answering. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands and forehead. Perspiration beaded up as soon as he heard the caller’s voice. They’d all started calling him J.C. after he got several of the gang leaders off on a murder rap several years ago. J.C. for Johnnie Cochran. At the time, he felt flattered to be likened to the LA attorney who’d put LAPD back on their heels during the O.J. Simpson trial. Now, the moniker irritated him.
He thought of his client locked away in Pelican Bay miles away. How did he know this would happen? A chill begin to give him hot and cold flashes. Stupidly, he put out the word thinking nothing would happen. He got paid handsomely for making a few phone calls. But this? Murder?
The man stood and walked over to a window. He could see the county jail in the distance, a place where his clientele were caged until they were shipped to one of the prisons around the state. These gang members were a constant flow of cash because of his connections to Pelican Bay. He kept the gang leaders informed. In return, they opened the spigots of legal defense funds to keep his coffers full. He had loved this arrangement until recently.
This killing meant another trek north. He shuddered at the thought of one more trip to the
Bay
. At first, these trips felt exhilarating. Like walking on the wild side without any real risks. Everything had changed. Now, the place gave him the creeps. And the man he’d meet scared him even more than the prison. Excitement had turned into fear.
There was no place he could hide from this client. The gang leader’s tentacles reached everywhere. And now—because of his stupid desire for excitement and money—he ran the risk of being pulled into a murder investigation. He shuddered to think that someday he might end up with his client as a cellmate—or worse.
There were so many things they never taught him in law school. Terror was one of those things he had to learn on his own.
T
om approached the huddle of uniformed men with Bill Stevenson at his side. Glancing to his right, he saw the body twenty yards away. The victim lay face down in the dirt, hands bound behind his back. Tom returned his attention to the officers as he got closer. He saw one of them glance his way and then nudge another officer in the group. They stopped talking and watched as Tom and Bill drew near. A look of impatience was stamped across the face of one of the younger officers. It was this officer who spoke first.
“Hey detectives. What’s shaking?”
Tom remembered this guy from when he taught gang investigations at the academy two years ago. The young officer was a ball of fire back then, and it appeared his fire was still lit. Tom had mentally tagged this guy
Firecracker.
The young man gestured toward the others. “If you don’t need us, we thought we’d go ahead and clear. Calls are stacking up.”
One of the older officers groaned. “Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth zipped, rookie.”
Tom glared at Firecracker. “Are we keeping you from something important, sport? All we have here is a little old homicide. We have a crime scene that may stretch for miles in every direction. We have …” Tom saw Firecracker’s face flush with embarrassment.
Tom relented. “This heat’s getting to all of us. VCI will be here soon to take over the investigation. Until then, I’m going to need all of you to lock down this crime scene. We’ll be out here for a while. Once the news media gets wind of this, we might have all kinds of rubberneckers showing up.”
Firecracker seemed to have recovered his dignity. “What do you want me to do, boss?”
Tom pulled out a clip board. “Document everyone who sets foot in this crime scene. I don’t care if the Chief or God himself crosses that line, record it and get their John Hancock on paper.”
He heard dispatch trying to raise him on the radio. He keyed the mike to let communications know he heard. “Sam One, be advised, VCI’s responding. The watch commander is en route. ETA ten minutes.”
Tom acknowledged and slipped the portable radio into his back pocket. He glanced Bill’s way. “Let’s go earn our paycheck.” The two men made a wide circle around the body, coming at it from the far side. As Tom neared the body, he saw several pairs of prints between the victim and the pathway. He made a mental note to have VCI have forensics do eliminations of the officers’ boots. He thought he recognized the pattern of heavy boot prints left by the first officer, long solid strides stopping just short of where the body lay.
His attention was drawn to the number of shoe prints. “There was more than one person here.” He pointed to the prints left in the gray ash. “Looks like maybe three or more, not counting the victim.”
Bill nodded and knelt beside his friend. Tom pointed to what appeared to be drag marks that abruptly stopped. Footprints, presumably from the victim, led to where the body had been abandoned.
In his mind, he tried to visualize the victim struggling with his abductors, trying to free himself as he saw the end near. He saw where the victim had futilely tried to pull his bonds apart. The tape was stretched and rolled together.
Tom glanced at the base of the victim’s head. The hair had been shaved close to the scalp, making his job easier. He bent and scrutinized two entry wounds at the base of the skull, two shots closely grouped together. The second shot must have been fired quickly before the body lurched forward. He saw muzzle-flash burns around each entry wound where gunpowder peppered the scalp. He didn’t need to turn the body over to know what the face must look like. He’d wait for the coroner to lay on hands. He’d see the photos later.
Bill squatted near the victim. “This was a cold-blooded execution. It looks to me like he was kneeling when they shot him. He knew it was coming.”
Tom squinted over at Bill. “Maybe there is hope for you, Sherlock.”
Bill opened his mouth as if to retort and then closed it again. Something else appeared to catch his attention and he leaned over the body.
“Hey, I recognize those tats.” He pointed to the side and back of the victim’s neck. “This bird at the base of his neck. It’s an image Norteno gangsters like to copy, slightly modified from the farm worker’s huelga bird.” He pointed to the side of the victim’s neck. “See the tattoo of a sombrero with the knife through it. Only an NF, a Nuestra Familia prison gang member, wears these tattoos. This guy’s gotta be connected.”
Tom stood. “So, we have an execution of a prison gang member. Where do we go from here, gang expert?”
Bill stared at the body. “I’m not sure. It depends on who killed him. One way or the other, this is going to spark some major payback. If the Southerners whacked him, if it was blue on red, we’re going to have the mother of all gang wars on our hands.”
He paused, looking at Tom. “On the other hand, if the NF’s cleaning house, red on red, someone within the gang ordered this hit.”
Firecracker carefully walked up behind them, clutching Tom’s clip board. Tom was pleased that the young man had followed the exact path he and Bill used to get to the point in the crime scene.