Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (173 page)

"Oh, and ask the M.E. how many blood types he finds." Slater sauntered off, whistling softly, Flood glaring at the Sheriff’s back.

A call came in on Cruz’s cell just after Slater left. Angie from
Jesus Saves.

“I wanted to tell you before I notify the police,” she whispered into the phone. “We found Dickey’s backpack. Across Washington Street by that drive-in? In their dumpster.”

Cruz turned away so Flood couldn’t overhear. “Who found it?”

“Sergei. He – he was real upset about Dickey, decided to go dumpster diving even though I told him it’s too early. Nothing good this time of morning.” Angie was babbling, her voice rising. She sounded terrified.

“How’d he know it was – uh, the right one?”

“He didn’t at first, brought it here to the office.
Jesus
,
Cruz, it’s in the bathroom now. Layin’ on the floor, all – all wet and bloody-like.”

“What?” Cruz dug his fingers into his temple.

“Yeah, but I could tell it was Dickey’s. Got this Forty-niners signature on it – Joe Montana.” She hiccupped quietly. “Dickey was always so proud of that.”

“Don’t say anything to anyone until I get there, and keep Sergei under wraps.” Cruz pressed the end button. The backpack, if it
did
belong to Dickey Hinchey, had been tossed right by the
Jesus Saves
shelter. The backpack could implicate Angie and all the other homeless men and women at
Jesus Saves
who clung to the shelter as their one sure place of safety and sanity.

Cruz surveyed the park, pondering the situation. Dry Creek ran down one side, wide spans of thick green grass and trees, and across the street stood a quiet line of elegant houses built in the 1920's when Rosedale, initially a railroad town, had flourished.

Who’d kill a harmless, homeless parolee?

Unfortunately, the homeless population had taken up residence in the park recently, causing incessant complaints from the neighborhood residents. The city council had passed several ordinances which reduced the number of street people hanging out where moms and dads watched their kids' t-ball games and retirees liked to stroll leisurely at dusk.

Why had they dumped the backpack so far away?

Still, it was nearly impossible to keep the homeless from pitching their sleeping bags in secluded park areas. Patrol officers spent most of their time rousting them. A thankless job because the homeless always came back a few hours later, or the next day or night.

Was one of his parolees responsible for Dickey’s death?

Police couldn't really keep the homeless from hanging out in the park, so they nailed them for littering or loitering. Misdemeanors at best, one the offenders didn't mind. For the older ones, a few hours or a night off the street in a warm cell was a good deal, especially during the winter rains.

Cruz made up his mind.

Andy Flood’s rigid back faced him. As a law enforcement officer, Cruz should inform the detective about the discovery of the backpack, but Flood’s sense of self-importance rankled him. He tapped Flood on the shoulder. “Who discovered the body?”

Flood turned around, irritated, rolled his neck. Cruz heard a pop. “Some old guy out walking his dog called in around seven.”

Cruz glanced in the direction Flood pointed. The frail-looking elderly gentleman, still armed with his pooper-scooper and baggie, held a noisy terrier next to his chest, both shivering like leaves on a windy day. They looked scared and shaken, and Cruz felt a momentary pang for the odd duo.

On reflection, he doubted the police would find any ID in the backpack. Homeless people often didn't carry identification with them. Most couldn’t afford a driver's license or county ID card.

Cruz called Angie back. “Dial 911,” he murmured. “Tell them someone found blood in the dumpster. Keep everyone out of the bathroom, and for heaven’s sake don’t touch the item. I’m on my way.”

Chapter 13

It was hard to stick to his job with the murder trending everywhere.

Brutal Park Murder.

Motive Unknown.

Police Baffled.

Mid-morning newscasts and sound bites screamed the latest gory gossip.

The words were raw lesions on his skin, burning and blistering. They were painting the dead as poor and pathetic, and the death as some grotesque murder.

He snapped his cell phone shut in disgust.

No one cared about the homeless population in Bigler County, not in Sacramento County either, although they put on a good show at
American River Food Bank.

The reality was vagrants were damn bloodsuckers, living off the government teat. Taking hard-working people’s hard-earned money. They could get jobs, live better lives if they wanted, but they’d rather live off the sweat of someone else’s labors.

Lazy good-for-nothings, like his father had always claimed.

The whole situation disgusted him.

He felt rage at the injustice of the system rise again in his gorge and remembered ...

The quiet, deserted park. The man leaning against the tree without a care in the world. His approach and the raw exchange of words.

Then the accident. It
was
an accident, he told himself. No planning. No premeditation. No intent. The phrases of TV crime shows lolled lazily inside his brain like drifting clouds.

An accident, he argued to himself. Not murder!

Still, the death of the homeless man had shaken him up. Not that the world was experiencing any great loss with him gone. But a kind of shame raced along his nerves in tandem with the same fire that burned there, the same unacknowledged thrill. He compartmentalized the emotions, but they lingered, two giants battling for dominance.

He was ashamed, yes! He’d taken a man’s life, but still ... the secret tinge of excitement remained. Even now, he felt himself remembering, dwelling on the feeling of emotional power. It was a seductive aphrodisiac.

After the clean up at Ryder Park, he had walked hurriedly back to his car, glancing around to be sure he wasn’t seen. He’d stowed the backpack and his tools in the car’s trunk on an old blanket.

Ditch the backpack, but where? None of this could lead back to him.

Before he drove to his grubby apartment in Old Rosedale – the only thing he could afford since his wife divorced him – he’d decided what to do.

In the kitchen at home he made a good strong cup of coffee, added a bit of brandy, and sipped it slowly at the counter. It was almost morning, and by then he’d stopped shaking and only a slight tremor remained in his hand.

Glancing at the clock, he thought about work, considered calling in sick. He quickly discarded the idea. Business as usual was the best way to proceed, but he didn’t like leaving the tools and blood-stained blanket in the trunk of his car.

He hadn’t tossed those items in the dumpster with the backpack. Too risky. The tools would be safe for the day in his car, he finally concluded. Then he’d determine what to do with them – dump them in the lake or a bleach soak to remove stains and DNA.

Would the tools be ruined? He thought he might enjoy using them ... again ... for other purposes, of course.

He took long, deep breaths, calming himself. No one would ever suspect him.

After a long, hot shower, he lay down in his shorts on top of the bedding. Stared at the white, water-stained ceiling. He’d have to repair that soon. Maybe a leak in the apartment above him? He relaxed a long time, letting the terror of what he’d done play itself out in his mind like an old-time movie – jerky and disconnected, shades of gray and an occasional bleep of white or black.

He worked through the whole event in his mind – from the time he’d left work the night before until, edgy and restless, he’d gone for a drive. He’d left his apartment and eased his late-model car through the dark, empty streets of Rosedale, past the million-dollar-plus homes in the ritzy part of town to the pawn shops and empty store fronts in Old Town. On almost every corner one or two street people slouched against a lamp post or sprawled in a darkened alley, a bottle of vodka clutched to their worthless bodies.

The sight had made him sick. Was that why he’d snapped?

The night was chilly for northern California in late fall. Low forties, high thirties the news said. Hard to keep warm, living on the street on a night like this. He tried to conjure up a thread of emotion, force sympathy or pity, or even civic duty for the wretched night creatures.

But he couldn’t. Hell, most cities had passed an ordinance making it illegal to sleep outside anywhere in town. Why was Rosedale so lax?

Where did they go, he wondered, if not to the alleys and abandoned buildings? If they got arrested for sleeping in the parks, they’d spend the night in jail. A stir of irritation sifted through him. Who was supposed to pay for
that?
How did arresting the bastards do anything except give them food and a bed for the night?

And always his father’s words came back to him, dashing through his mind in a crazed 100-meter race.
Lazy good-for-nothings. Sucking life out of hard-working folks.

Chapter 14

When Cruz reached the
Jesus Saves
office, a squad car was parked in front of the drive-in across Washington street. He pulled into the convenience store lot and walked over, flashing his badge to the officers standing beside a dumpster. “Find anything?”

The male officer eyed the badge carefully and then relaxed. “Looks like some blood smears inside the bin. Crime scene’s on the way.”

Cruz deliberated a moment and then jutted with his head. “What about the
Jesus Saves
woman?”

“What? The 911 dispatcher said there was a call about evidence in the dumpster.”

Damn, Angie.
She probably thought she was helping, but she could get in a hell of a lot of trouble for concealing evidence. “Anonymous call?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Lots of homeless people around here. They hang out at the shelter across the street. Maybe one of them saw ... ” He let the sentence trail off, hoping they would be smart enough to fit the pieces together, but not too clever to nail Angie for obstruction.

“Come on,” Cruz offered. “I know the woman in charge. We can ask her.”

“You go,” the pretty female officer offered. “I’ll stay here.”

When Angie saw the police officer with Cruz, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.

No, she didn’t know nothing about no backpack. No, no one had used her office phone, far as she knew. Sure, he could search without a warrant, no trouble at all.

“Honey, we ain’t got nothing to hide here.” She ended with an expansive sweep of her hands around the comfortable, but worn lounge, just as the female officer stepped in.

Cruz gave Angie a look of approval. They waited patiently while the partner, Officer Summers, the redhead who’d been at the park crime scene earlier taking names and contact numbers, searched the
Jesus Saves
building.

The middle-aged officer noticed Cruz watching Summers. “She’s new, but ... enthusiastic.”

Summers hurried back with a grin on her freckled face and the bloody backpack dangling from her latex-covered fingers. She looked so green and eager her shield sparkled like a shiny new button on the waistband of her pants. Cruz watched her alacrity and tried to remember if he'd ever been so freshly unaware.

When Angie saw Summers holding the backpack gingerly by one bloody strap, she gave a genuine-sounding little squeak.

Well played, Angie.

Cruz didn’t question why he’d allowed the subterfuge to continue. If one of the street people had murdered Dickey Hinchey, he wouldn’t let them get away with it.

The thing was, at one time in their lives one of these guys, or even a woman, could’ve killed a person, but not now. He was sure of it. Life had leached the intellect or nerve or rage out of them.

He’d swear on his life that not one of them had the ... bravado to carve up a person so brutally. He hoped he wasn’t staking his career on that belief.

After the discovery was called in, the evidence bagged and tagged, and the homeless had boarded the bus, Cruz caught Angie alone in her office. “Which church tonight?”

Every local church provided a hot meal and a place to sleep for the night during the winter.

“Presbyterian,” she replied shortly, and held her hands up, palms out to ward off his next question. “I ain’t gonna talk about this, Officer Cruz. I just ain’t.”

“I understand,” Cruz soothed, “but don’t you find it odd that the backpack turns up near
Jesus Saves,
the very place Dickey always hangs out?”

Angie set her mouth in a thin, stubborn line. “Sergei didn’t do this.”

“I’m not saying he did, but somebody stabbed Dickey multiple times and then added insult to injury by smashing him to bits with a metal pipe.” He wasn’t sure that was the way it’d happened, but what the hell.

Angie chewed on her lower lip, then her thumb. “You’re saying someone’s trying to frame one of us, huh? This is a set-up?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Cruz frowned. “Look, I know you’re scared – ”

“No, you don’t,” Angie spat. “You don’t know what it’s like for these people. They don’t need any more hassle from cops like Officer Rawley, who’s always harassing them, and parole officers who give ‘em trouble.” Here she flashed a gimlet eye at him. “Life’s hard enough without more shit.”

Cruz ignored the criticism. “Sergei found the backpack, right? His prints will be all over it
and
probably inside the dumpster. You know I can roust him and make it harder than it needs to be.” Cruz sighed. “Look, Angie, Dickey was one of mine. He wasn’t the brightest guy and he was wasted most of the time, but ... ”