The Tulare County Homicide Bureau, with its fake wood paneling and softball league pennants, looked like a semifinished basement though it sat on the second floor of Camp Nelson’s municipal building. O’Dowd had to turn sideways in order to shuffle through a hallway jammed with mismatched filing cabinets. He entered a room full of cluttered desks and disgruntled detectives and shouted Wylie’s name from the opposite side of the floor.
“I’m trying to work here,” Sergeant Sandercoe protested from across the room.
“Oh please,” O’Dowd said. “Like you know how to do anything on that computer besides play solitaire.”
O’Dowd reached Wylie’s desk and took a moment to catch his breath.
“You all right there?” Wylie asked.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” O’Dowd said. “We got a hit. Off those bottles.”
“The Heineken bottles?”
“Yeah. A guy named Bruce Beauchamp from Fontana. Construction worker by day, drug dealer by night. He has a page and a half worth of priors. And get this: he’s six four, 240 pounds, and has curly hair.”
“Not bad,” Wylie said. “Any connection to Rudy Manuel?”
“Too early to say, but I doubt it. They did their stints at different facilities, and they went away for different crimes.”
“We have an address for Mr. Beauchamp?”
“A trailer park halfway down the coast to LA.”
“All right, then,” Wylie said. “Let’s get the cavalry lined up.”
* * *
They met the local task force at five the next morning, in the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall three miles from Beauchamp’s trailer camp. The sheriff’s office sent three squad cars and a SWAT van.
“Seems like a lot for just one guy,” O’Dowd told Sergeant Sandercoe, the SWAT team leader.
“These trailer parks can turn into combat zones real quick,” Sandercoe said. “Our incident commander doesn’t like us taking chances.”
Wylie guzzled his coffee.
“Fine by me,” he said. “I gave up on guts and glory a long time ago.”
The sergeant spread out a map of the trailer park on the hood of O’Dowd’s sedan and drew a circle around Beauchamp’s home with a red marker.
“We’ll serve the warrant,” he said. “You hang back here, at the park’s entrance. Once we’ve got him in cuffs, he’s all yours.”
O’Dowd yawned.
“He boring you?” Wylie asked.
“I’m a night owl by nature,” O’Dowd said. “Coffee doesn’t work for me before the sun’s up.”
O’Dowd and Wylie made the short drive sandwiched between SWAT’s unmarked van and the three squad cars. They peeled off at the entrance, cut the sedan’s headlights, and sat waiting for the go-ahead to come over the radio.
They didn’t have to wait long. By the time Wylie tore the cellophane off a fresh pack of cigarettes and lit one, the sergeant’s voice was already summoning them through a haze of static.
“Beauchamp must not be a fighter,” O’Dowd said.
“Let’s hope he coughs up his confession that quick.”
They found him sitting on the makeshift stoop in front of his broken-down trailer, hands cuffed behind his back. He wore a stained tank top and an old pair of jeans, and his curly red hair was clearly fresh off the pillow. Sergeant Sandercoe stood over him like he was the prize at the end of a big-game hunt.
“He give you any trouble?” O’Dowd asked.
“No sir,” Sandercoe said. “Had a Glock on the nightstand, but he slept right through us kicking the door in.”
“I thought felons weren’t allowed to have guns,” Wylie said, for Beauchamp’s benefit.
“You know, I don’t believe they are,” O’Dowd said. “I believe that’s what you call a violation.”
“I got no clue what you guys are doing here,” Beauchamp said, without much conviction.
“We’ll tell you all about it in the car,” Wylie said. “Right after we read you your rights.”
“I know my rights.”
“I guess you would by now,” O’Dowd said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Beauchamp stood, seeming to keep rising well past the six foot four Rudy had described. Wylie had to slide the passenger seat forward in order to fit him in the back of the sedan. Neighbors stepped outside to watch, the men bare-chested and the women in curlers. Their expressions were none too friendly.
“Sandercoe wasn’t kidding,” O’Dowd said under his breath.
“Yeah, let’s scat,” Wylie said.
The sun was starting to show by the time they hit the highway. Wylie and O’Dowd had planned to say as little as possible until they got back to the station, but Beauchamp wouldn’t have it.
“I’m hungry and I gotta piss,” he complained. “This is cruel and unusual.”
“Pipe down,” Wylie said.
“Where are you taking me? At least tell me that much.”
“Someplace you’ve been before.”
“I’ve been a lot of places. And I didn’t break any laws. What you’re doing right now is called kidnapping. State-sanctioned kidnapping.”
“We’re going to have a nice, civilized conversation,” O’Dowd said. “That’s all.”
“Then let’s have it here. Go ahead and ask your questions. I got nothing to hide.”
“All right,” Wylie said, pivoting in his seat. “Why don’t you tell us what you were doing up at Camp Nelson two Saturdays ago?”
“That what this is about? A working man can’t take a weekend to himself without getting dragged to the precinct house?”
“No offense, Mr. Beauchamp, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who has the luxury of weekend R&R,” Wylie said.
“Why? ’Cause I live in a trailer? I make more in a month than you two put together.”
“Like I said, Mr. Beauchamp…”
“So I guess you’re Tulare County cops? That where we’re headed? Camp Nelson?”
“See, now you’ve ruined the surprise,” Wylie said.
Beauchamp perked up a little, like he saw an advantage in dealing with backwoods cops.
“What is you think I did up there?”
“I got a better idea,” O’Dowd said. “Why don’t you tell us what you did up there?”
“All right. A friend from the job site told me about the place. I’d been having trouble with my girl and needed to clear my head. A weekend of fishing and hiking seemed like just the thing.”
“No drinking?”
“Yeah, some of that, too.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know if the place even had a name. It was down a country road, way off the beaten path.”
“How’d you find it?”
“Desk clerk where I was staying suggested I check it out. He drew me a map.”
“Where were you staying?”
“Motel Six. Go ahead and check their records.”
“We will,” Wylie said. “Meanwhile, what’s your friend’s name? The one who recommended Camp Nelson.”
“John.”
“What’s John’s last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“We’re work friends. We talk on our lunch break, that’s all.”
“So if we show up at the site on Monday morning we’ll be able to find this John?” O’Dowd asked.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“He’s a day worker. He goes wherever they send him.”
“But your foreman would know how to reach him, right?” O’Dowd followed up.
“I guess.”
“What about your girl?” Wylie asked. “She have a name? A number?”
Beauchamp sunk down, pushed his knees against the back of Wylie’s seat. They’d made it clear that he was in for the long haul.
“You know what?” he said. “Why don’t you guys call and get me a lawyer. I’m gonna rest up now. Make sure I got my wits about me.”
“That’s a good idea, Mr. Beauchamp,” Wylie said. “The best one I’ve heard in a while.”