The Hated: A Detective Jericho Single Read online

  THE HATED

  A Detective Jericho

  SINGLE

  WALTER MARKS

  If you hit a wrong note, it's the next note that you play that determines if it’s good or bad.

  – Miles Davis

  PROLOGUE

  Rufus Pugh, a grizzled man in his late sixties, walked slowly along Indian Wells Beach. It was a warm, windy April morning, the surf breaking sharply over the damp sand. Overhead, the daytime moon looked like a crescent smudge of white chalk, drawn upon a pale blue sky.

  Rufus was oblivious to his surroundings. Today was his first chance to use his new Tesoro Sand Shark metal detector. It was also his first day back on the beach after the long, cold, snowy winter. As always in the spring, the beach had been eroded and re-shaped by winds and tides. This in turn churned up buried deposits of gold and silver jewelry, items lost during the summer — torn off swimmers’ skin by the rushing surf, or slipping into the sand from bodies slick with suntan oil.

  As an experienced beach detectorist, Rufus knew Indian Wells as a good hunting ground. Although there were some relatively un-crowded beaches in the area, during the summer families and groups flocked to certain preferred spots like Indian Wells, making them as jammed as Coney Island on a Sunday.

  Rufus moved in small steps along the shoreline, steadily swinging his search coil from side to side, listening in his headphones for telltale beeps. Through years of practice, he could tell the difference between a bottle cap, a penny, and a gold ring.

  He was so engrossed in his task that he nearly bumped into the lifeguard stand. He looked up and saw a man sitting in the chair atop the wooden, crisscrossed structure. It was too early in the season for lifeguards, so he figured it was some beachgoer enjoying the view. He took off his headphones.

  “Hey, fella,” he yelled. “How’s the weather up there?”

  No answer.

  He looked closer and saw the guy’s head was tilted back, like he was looking at the sky. Was he sleeping?

  “Hey, fella!”

  The lack of response puzzled Rufus. Setting down his gear, he stepped up onto the first crossbeam of the chair’s frame and got a closer look. The man was wearing a grey hoodie with the letters OLA printed on the front.

  Rufus climbed a bit higher and was stunned by what he saw. There was a thin red line cutting across the guy’s throat. A few rivulets of blood trailed down from his neck. Across his forehead, written with what appeared to be black Magic Marker, were four numbers: 8668.

  Is he dead? He sure as hell looks dead.

  Rufus had no cell phone. So he ran to his car and drove the ten minutes back to his apartment in St. Michael’s Senior Housing Project.

  Then he called the cops.

  CHAPTER 1.

  Detective Jericho entered Chief Sidney Krauss’s office. Krauss sat at his desk, furrowing his dark unibrow in an effort to look thoughtful. Actually, it made him look confused.

  The chief’s officious manner and his self-aggrandizing ambition created friction between him and Jericho. But Jericho’s recent bust of a Russian sex trafficking gang had the chief basking in reflected glory, which eased the tension somewhat. Still, Krauss was a major pain-in-the-ass.

  “We just got a call,” Krauss said. “Guy says there’s a dead body sittin’ in a lifeguard chair out at Indian Wells Beach. I want you to go check it out.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Jericho, I’d like you to partner with Fred McCoy on this.”

  “Forget it.”

  “He’s an experienced detective...”

  “He’s a jerk. And you know I like to work alone.”

  “You worked with Maria Salazar and that turned out okay. And she was just a rookie.”

  The mention of Maria’s name caught Jericho off guard.

  Yeah, that turned out okay, he thought. Except for what happened to her.

  A flash memory of Maria’s lovely face rendered him speechless.

  “Look,” the chief went on. “I know you’re not crazy about McCoy. But internal conflict is not healthy for the department. It’s not all about you. We’re a team and there’s no ‘I’ in team.”

  Jericho stifled a groan.

  “McCoy’s come to me a few times,” Krauss went on. ”He’s clearly disgruntled.”

  “And you want him to be gruntled.”

  It was a lame joke, but Krauss failed to see even a trace of humor.

  Fred McCoy had seniority over Jericho and believed he should head up the detective squad. But Jericho’s previous experience in East Harlem Homicide trumped McCoy’s twenty years coping with East Hampton’s misdemeanors and petty crimes.

  McCoy had attached himself to the chief about a year ago, when Krauss was appointed Head of the Department. The two became drinking buddies at Wolfie’s Tavern. Krauss was a two-beer man, but McCoy often got totally soused and sang along with Sinatra, Manilow, and Streisand on the jukebox, which Krauss found very entertaining. Many of the other patrons did not.

  “Grab McCoy and get your butts out there, the chief shouted. “That’s an order!”

  Jericho nodded and got up.

  “Indian Wells, just east of the parking lot.” Krauss went on. “The guy who found the body is waitin’ for you at the walkway. I’ll be out there myself, soon as I finish some paperwork.”

  Terrific, Jericho thought.

  He called Vic Dobrowolski, his trusted aide on the detective squad, and told him about the body.

  “Get on the radio, Vic — send whoever’s available over to Indian Wells to secure the crime scene.”

  “Will do.”

  On the drive out to the beach, Detective Fred McCoy rattled on about TV true crime murder shows, boasting he always knew whodunit halfway through the program.

  Jericho ignored him.

  CHAPTER 2.

  As they pulled into the beach parking lot, three patrolmen were in a squad car following them. Jericho got out of his car, slung his large battered canvas CSI bag over his shoulder, and motioned for the three cops to follow him.

  Standing at the beach entrance was an elderly man in a threadbare blue velvet tracksuit. “Hi,” he said. “I’m the witness. Rufus Pugh.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said, trying hard not to make Pugh sound like pee-yew. “I’m Detective Jericho like in The Battle.”

  “I’m Detective McCoy, like in The Real,” said McCoy, clearly pleased with his cleverness. Jericho rolled his eyes.

  “Follow me,” Rufus said, “I’ll show you the body.”

  He led Jericho and McCoy down the beach walkway, and they walked to the nearby lifeguard chair. When they got close enough to see the body, McCoy recognized him.

  “Holy shit! That’s the guy works at Neely’s Deli. Carlos

  something.”

  “Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said. “When did you find him?”

  “About an hour ago. I was walking with my metal detector when I sorta bumped into him.”

  “Did you touch anything? Move anything?”

  “No,” he said. “Well, I guess my fingerprints are all over the chair. I mean, I hadda climb up to get a better look at the guy. But I... I mean, I didn’t have anything to do with... what happened to him.”

  Jericho turned to McCoy. “Fred, why don’t you take Mr. Pugh’s statement? I’ll check the body.”

  “I identified him, so I think I should...”

  “Did you bring gloves?”

  “Um, um...”

  Jericho snapped on his own pair. “Help the guys yellow-tape the perimeter. Then write up Mr. Pugh.”

  McCoy took out a compact camera from his jacket pocket. “I just got this,” he said proud
ly.”Lumix TZ70. I can photograph the crime scene in hi-def.”

  “Later,” Jericho barked. He reached in his bag, pulled out a Witness Statement Form and clipboard, and handed it to McCoy. “When you’re done, make sure Mr. Pugh reads and signs this.”

  “I know that,” McCoy said testily.

  Jericho climbed to the top of the lifeguard chair, leaned over the man and felt his carotid artery. No pulse. The stiffness of the neck and head, and the claw-like rigidity of the fingers suggested rigor mortis in the 7 to 12 hour window.

  Jericho looked at the numbers 8668 written on the victim’s forehead. He had no idea what they meant. But he did recognize the letters OLA on the man’s sweatshirt. He knew they stood for a Latino community activist group, because his partner Maria Salazar had been a member. She’d told him the letters stood for Organización Latino Americana and that ola was also the Spanish word for wave.

  Jericho examined the cut around the victim’s throat. From experience he recognized the mark of a garrote. Looking closer, he saw several pale yellow bristly fibers sticking out of the wound — likely from a manila rope. Judging from the narrow size of the mark, it was a ¾ inch diameter rope — not a professional assassin’s garrote, which would be a wire or a nylon cord. This was homemade, an amateur device. Deadly nonetheless.

  He searched the man’s pockets. There was a wallet and about a hundred dollars in cash, so robbery wasn’t the motive. His drivers’ license, credit cards, and OLA membership card identified him as Carlos Dávila Cristóbal Lopez.

  There was a photograph of a woman sitting on a front porch, surrounded by three kids; two teenage boys and a sweet looking little girl — probably Lopez’s family. Jericho also found a key ring, holding several keys including car keys. He placed each of these items in separate plastic evidence bags and zip-locked them.

  From the top of the lifeguard chair, Jericho had a good view of the beach. He looked back at the parking lot, about

  fifty yards away. Lopez could’ve been killed on or near the chair, but more likely he was killed elsewhere, brought to the beach and posed on the chair in a macabre display.

  Jericho climbed down and saw Rufus Pugh reading the Witness Statement.

  “You sure I wrote down everything you said, exactly as you said it?” McCoy asked Pugh.

  “...Yep.”

  “Okay, just sign at the bottom where is says ‘witness’. Here’s a pen.”

  He signed.

  Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said. “Did you say you had a metal detector?”

  “Yeah. It’s my hobby.”

  “Where’s the detector?”

  “Back in my car.”

  “I’d like your help, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” Jericho said. “I want you to scan the beach, in a straight line from the parking lot to here. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, let’s go back to your car.”

  Jericho knew it was a long shot, but maybe they’d uncover some sort of buried evidence. It was worth a try.

  McCoy took out his camera. “I’ll start taking pictures.”

  “Fine,” Jericho said. “Shoot everything. There’s no such thing as too many pictures at a crime scene. And whatever you do, do not move the body!”

  “No kiddin’,” McCoy said, totally pissed.

  As they walked to the parking lot, Pugh said, “Y’know, it’s kinda exciting bein’ a witness. And I think I really helped on this case. Detective McCoy, he told me he recognized the dead guy. Said his name was Carlos — he didn’t know his last name — and he’d seen him around Neely’s Deli. Well, right then I knew who he was talkin’ about. Carlos Lopez! He’s the manager — I’ve shopped at Neely’s for years. I hadn’t recognized him at first, because, well, I was too shook up to look at him real close. So now you got a whadycallit? — positive ID.”

  Jericho was furious. When interrogating a witness, a detective is only supposed to ask questions, and never give out information. And worse, McCoy had shared the victim’s name with a member of the public before the police could notify next of kin. If that information got out, it could be devastating to the family and cause unpredictable complications in the investigation.

  “Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said. “I must ask you not to discuss this case with anyone. Any violation of my request will result in serious consequences. Do you understand?”

  Pugh nodded.

  Jericho knew he’d made an idle threat. There was no law against a witness talking about a crime. And it was human nature for people to blab. He could only hope.

  At that moment, Jericho knew one thing for sure. McCoy was too inexperienced, too self-involved, too dumb, or all of the above.

  He had to get Fred McCoy the hell off this case.

  Jericho walked beside Pugh as he scanned the beach with his metal detector. The detective noted the sand was too windblown to preserve any viable shoeprints.

  At Jericho’s request, Pugh had set the device to “all metal.” Pugh winced several times as the high pitched sound in his headphones indicated the presence of pull-tabs.

  About halfway along the route, Pugh suddenly said, “Silver.”

  Jericho knelt down and dug in the sand with his gloved

  hand. He pulled up a dime and showed it to Pugh,

  “1961 Roosevelt head,” Pugh said.

  “It’s silver?”

  “Yeah. 90%. After 1964 they started makin’ dimes outta copper and nickel.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  “Crappy condition. I’d say ten cents.”

  Jericho put the dime in a plastic evidence bag and they continued on, finding nothing.

  At the crime scene Jericho told Pugh to scan the sand under the lifeguard chair in concentric circles. On the second pass, Pugh called out, “Detective. I got somethin’.”

  Jericho dug down underneath the searching coil. He pulled up a button.

  “Shank button,” Pugh said. “Zinc alloy.”

  The button was embossed with a six pointed star surrounded by a circle. “Might be useful,” Jericho said, dropping the button into another evidence bag. “Make two more passes around the chair and let me know if anything shows up.”

  “Will do.”

  Jericho’s cell phone rang. It was Dobrowolski

  “Hey, boss,” Vic said. “A Mrs. Paz Lopez came in, reporting her husband missing. Figured he could be the body on the beach. I told her to go home, and that we’d look into it.”

  “Good. She’s home now?”

  “I would think so.”

  Jericho instructed Vic to drive out to the beach and bring a fingerprint kit containing an ALS (alternate light source). He knew the latents on the lifeguard chair would be tricky to lift, but using a fluorescent dye stain and an orange LED light, the prints would be clear and easy to document.

  Switching his phone to video mode, Jericho began carefully shooting the crime scene from every angle. There was value in still photographs, but capturing the ambience of the murder scene on video could recreate the sense of being there. That could be helpful down the line.

  As he was finishing up, he saw that Chief Krauss had arrived. McCoy was showing Krauss the photos he’d taken. He was grinning proudly, like a new father showing off his baby pictures.

  Pugh, having finished scanning, complained to Jericho that at his age it was hard just standing around.

  “Okay, you can go,” Jericho said. “But stay where we can reach you. And keep your mouth shut.”

  “Right.”

  Jericho went over to Chief Krauss and Detective McCoy.

  “Everything under control?” the chief asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “You identify the victim?”

  “I took his witness statement,” McCoy said. “Guy’s name is Carlos Lopez.”

  “Jericho,” Krauss said. “I see from Fred’s pictures the victim has the numbers 8668 written on his forehead. Any idea what that means?”

  “No.”

  “Would you
hazard a guess?”

  “It’s too early in the investigation.”

  “Any suspects.”

  “No.”

  “Did you dust the chair for prints?”

  “Too windy to dust,” Jericho said. “The powder would get blown off. I’ve got Dobrowolski coming over with some state-of-the-art equipment. He’ll take care of it.”

  “Outdoor crime scenes are a bitch,” McCoy proclaimed.

  “Fred, you stay here and secure the perimeter,” Jericho

  said. “I’ve got to go notify next of kin.”

  “Oh, man,“ McCoy said. “That’s no fun,”

  “What about the body?” Krauss asked.

  “I’ll call the ME in Hauppauge and tell him to send a wagon for it.”

  McCoy looked around. “Where the hell’s that Pugh guy?”

  “I sent him home.”

  “I don’t think you should’ve...”

  “Listen, Fred,” Jericho said, a plan forming in his mind. “This is gonna be a tough investigation, and since we’ll be working together I think we should make sure we’re always on the same page. Whadya say I take you to dinner tonight and we can share our intelligence on the case?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I second that emotion,” Krauss said.

  “Eight o’clock, Il Cappuccino, Sag Harbor.”

  “Madison Street, right?

  “Yep. See you then.”

  CHAPTER 3.

  Back at his office, Jericho assembled his evidence bags and filled out the labels — type of evidence, name of victim, date and time confiscated, confiscating officer, and chain of custody.

  After dropping off the material at the evidence room, Jericho thought about his upcoming task. Notifying next of kin in a homicide case was probably the toughest job for any police officer.

  In East Harlem Jericho had received training on the protocols. NYPD officers were given specific steps to follow, but those steps were often of little value in confronting the shock, grief, and hostility of the bereaved loved one.