Coffee was fresh and steaming in the office. The three older detectives and their protégé were pinning up photos on the large movable boards. Paul explained the larger crime scene board and the eight-by-ten photos. “We had these re-cropped to the most salient information. The four upper rows are the corresponding symbols starting with the first known kill site and working down to last night along the bottom. In these file boxes are the close-ups of each overview in case they can help. Today they shot the six large areas, which you see here, and then sectioned them off into twenty-four sections each. Those sections are in each of these six binders and are marked to coordinate to each of the overview shots. There is still no identity to any of the victims except for the second, which was the college girl hitchhiking down the coast.”
“Melody Richards,” Manny offered.
“Thank you.” Paul moved to the other board. “This is what we have so far on this one.
“We think they got there sometime around midnight. By the dried blood on the hands and legs, we figure about twelve-thirty when he nailed the victim up to the wall.
“The gunshot wound was consistent to a twenty-two short, the same as you got in your back. The bullet was too deformed to pull barrel marks, which is consistent with all four, or five, counting Manny. The perp used a chunk of the vic’s shirt to stop the blood flow and taped it on with electrical tape, consistent with the others. The lab is trying to see if there are any prints, but unless he got sloppy this time…” He looked at Manny, who was slowly shaking his head.
“After what you said today, we went back over the first three and did find a bird bone in the general cataloging of items in the kill zone. But because nobody gave it any credence, it was held into evidence as ‘other.’ But it was consistent with the one you picked up and had identified. I also noticed in the first case, they didn’t even figure out the bloody bunch of the vic’s hair was also the paintbrush.”
Willie had been staring at the photos of the print castings. “What do we know about the barefoot prints?”
“This was the first time we had soil, so we got lucky on the lookout. The print indicates fine bones, and the weight to be under a hundred pounds. The shoe size would be about a men’s size six. However, we really don’t know if it is a small man or woman’s print. We did determine, with the flattening of the arch there was no hesitation on walking on either the sand or stubble—they are always barefooted.”
“Because of the desensitization of the footpad… as well as sandals being an unnecessary expense,” responded Willie with a nod. “We saw a lot of it in Nam.”
Hooker mused, almost to himself, “It would be consistent with any of the Mouse’s tribe.”
Manny nodded and looked back at Paul. “What did they find in the tree line over on Santa Teresa?”
“Good call there. We have tire tracks, the boots on what we assume was the driver side, and the barefoot was the passenger. The boots made for grinding of small stones to create trace grind marks, but there were none on the passenger side. There was a weight load shift, resulting in grind marks at what we believe was the trunk. After, we found they led off into the field. The field is being guarded tonight, and forensics will start working it with a group search tomorrow to see if there is anything else we can find.”
“What about the tire tread?” Hooker leaned forward.
“Firestone 575-16 series, consistent with every small Ford, Dodge, Mercury, Chevy you can think of from 1962 forward, they all used this tire. It was the number two best-selling tire in America for over the last decade or more. Sorry, but we have a dry well there unless we find the car and match some unique tread wear.”
“So the only thing new is we now know the raven bone is a part of the package.” Manny leaned back and stretched.
Paul pointed at him, and then at the footprint castings as he sat down on the corner of Manny’s desk. “And we know we have a lookout.”
“And the cowboy boot prints are consistent?”
“They may be new boots or soles, but same make and model, and by the footprint, we don’t think his weight has changed by more than maybe ten pounds heavier.” Paul finished his coffee.
Willie frowned. “Why not a woman? Do you have evidence the killer is male?”
Paul’s eyebrows rose as he set the mug on the desk. “Good point. It’s the nature of the kill making us assume it’s a male. In the Navy, you didn’t have to deal with this kind of stuff, so this psychological profiling may sound a little out there, but it bears up.
“In the rare instances of a serial killer being female, they don’t do it up-close and personal. They will use either a gun or something that doesn’t make a mess, like poison. Also, female serial killers are about the kill. It’s almost always a sexual thing, and they get a release. With guys, it is a very personal ritualistic thing.”
The old Navy Seal snorted. “Arsenic and Old Lace syndrome.”
“Exactly.”
Willie nudged his chin toward Hooker. “So your explanation for the dime…?”
“The exception to the rule—it was an anomaly.” Referring to the Dime Killer, Hooker continued with, “It was a shotgun but with overtones of personal and rituals.”
Paul glanced at his watch. “This is all we have at this time, and if there are no other thoughts, I have an early meeting with probably the mayor and some other bite-in-the-ass in the early morning, if I don’t have reporters camped out on my doorstep.”
Manny hunched on his elbows translating into a slight hop in his chair. It was more of him shifting mental gears than any kind of adjustment in his seating. “No, we’re good here, Paul. Thanks for all of the information and the briefing. If anything comes in, give me a call, and you know what time dinner is.”
Hooker sat quietly. Something was just too familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it... just yet.
“Hooker... have you got something, son?”
Hooker looked up at the commissioner as if he had just suddenly materialized. “Wha—? Uh, no... Just thinking.”
Paul stuck his hand out. “Dolly can find me night or day. Since my Patricia passed, she has become my guardian angel.” He sighed. Two years since he had lost his wife to cancer and the pain was still fresh. “If you get a thought, just give a holler... night or day. It doesn’t really matter anymore. I don’t really sleep much these days.”
As the detective collective invaded the kitchen area, they were greeted by two grown children powdered with flour. The entire large square island was taken up with making food. More specifically—exotic cultural confections.
A very happy, but slightly embarrassed Hank, smiled sheepishly. “Hello, boys.”
Willie eyed his partner, whom he had never seen wear anything more feminine than a white shirt but was now down to his jeans and barefoot with a frilly pink apron covering his wife-beater undershirt. The apron might have gone without comment except it was the joke apron Manny had gotten for Stella as a housewarming. The large bold letters relayed the sentiment: If you don’t like my food, you can kiss my grits.
Willie cleared his throat. “And which part exactly is your grits?”
Hank turned red as a barn. Stella interceded. “Don’t you boys have some toys to play with? Hanky and I are making kugel, and if any of you plan to have any on Saturday for dinner… you will shut up and go away.” Stella had spoken.
Hooker turned to Willie as Paul squeezed Manny on the shoulder and slipped out the front door. “Willie, I need to go meet Father Damian at eleven, and if we go now, we can stop in and check on the Squirt.”
Willie’s right hand came up in a silent goodbye as he turned away from the force, he knew not even decades of being a tough Navy Seal could have prepared him for. He slapped Hooker lightly on the chest and pointed at his bare feet.
Hooker stopped by the door and tried on a pair of Stella’s flip-flops. A wee small, but close enough, and he didn’t want to spend another moment in the eye of Stella’s storm. Manny was already beating a fast retreat to his office and the two doors, front and office, snicked shut at the same time.
Willie stopped halfway to the fountain dominating the center of the hacienda entry plaza. “Don’t you want to bring Box?”
Hooker thought a moment about opening the front door, and then just stared at his uncle as he barked loudly. “Box. Go time.” He smirked at Willie.
As they both turned to walk around the fountain and out the tall hand-hewn black walnut front gates, they could hear the SNAP-snap-snap of the plastic door on the other side of the house. Box had his own door but usually refused to use it for anything other than a necessity. Two things you never had to tell Box twice—dinner and go time. Of course, he was always ready to beat up another dog, too.
The large orange tabby was standing straight-legged on his small patch of grass between the driveway and the promenade walkway leading up to the front gates and entry into the traditional hacienda with its two-foot thick straw stucco walls. Hooker had never seen any other cat pee standing like a horse. Even dogs made arrangements, but it was as if Box was proud of what he could and was doing. Box was Box.
The cat scratch-kicked a couple of divots in the grass and looked to see what vehicle had replaced the giant tow truck.
Hooker opened the passenger door to the 1952 DeSoto convertible. It was the very same car Willie had caught him trying to steal over a decade before. Hooker wasn’t sure if Willie held onto the car because he really loved it or it reminded him of where they had started. Either way was fine with Hooker; he had long gotten over the embarrassing story Willie loved to tell about finding Hooker hot-wiring the radio instead of the ignition. Hooker had come a long way.
He now stood at the door. “Box.” The cat seemed to shrug as if to say, I guess this one will have to do.
The late evening was a joy in the top-down roadster. Even Box was enjoying the wind as he stood on Hooker’s lap with his front paws on the windowsill and his face in the breeze. His one good eye was closed, but Hooker and Willie could tell the unique cat was in heaven with new smells coming at him at forty miles an hour.
The large old Detroit V8 engine rumbled and echoed in all three hearts. Hooker looked across the lights of the valley. He missed the much higher perch and deeper rumble of his true love, the eleven tons of his Mae West.
The 1959 Marmon truck was Hooker’s first vehicle and first major love. He and Willie had rebuilt her up from scratch, so to speak. They had torn the old truck down to just the frame and built from there. The front nose of her was the largest ever made commercially. The engine was almost double the size and power of any other big rig in the San Francisco Bay Area. She was the fastest tow truck in five counties. Hooker floated her over the 120mph mark on a regular basis. With Hooker at the wheel, she ruled the night.