Sullivan’s Evidence Read online

  Anderson ran his hands through his hair, becoming even more agitated. “What about the other women, the ones he raped? DNA wasn’t an issue in those cases.”

  “If you will recall,” Carolyn said, “the women he raped failed to pick Holden out of a photo lineup. I know two of the victims identified him in the courtroom, but the defense destroyed them. He was cleared on those counts as well. If it’s any consolation, Abernathy is dead. Someone went to his house and shot him in the head.”

  Anderson’s hands closed into fists. “The courts stink, and all you people who work in them are shit. And Sam, for God’s sake! What should I tell my son? He’s in special education now, with all the idiots and troublemakers. Sam is a smart boy. He never got over losing his mother. Fuck you, fuck all of you.” He turned and stomped back to the table, digging in his wallet for his credit card, then slapping it down on the table.

  Marcus said, “Let’s go, Carolyn.”

  “All right,” she said. She wanted to explain to Anderson that Holden could be retried if new evidence surfaced in the future, but at this point, she realized, nothing anyone said would make the man feel better.

  Back in the car, Carolyn sat quietly, lost in her thoughts. She finally gave Marcus directions to her house, hoping that the Realtor would be gone by the time she got there. As they were gliding over the roads in his Jaguar, she began talking and couldn’t stop. It was similar to being in a shrink’s office. When she would stop speaking, thinking Marcus had heard enough, he would present another question, and more would pour out of her. Before she knew it, she’d rattled off the various details of the crimes Holden had committed, told how he’d disguised himself as a FedEx man, and related the way he had alluded to killing other women when she’d first interviewed him. When she told Marcus that she’d seen Holden Friday for a new offense, and the court had failed to even place him on supervised probation, her companion’s face showed his shock.

  “But aren’t you his parole agent?”

  “No,” Carolyn said, sighing in frustration. She sometimes thought her job was so insignificant to the general public that they should just do away with it. But presentence reports were mandated by the court on all felonies. “I’m not even Holden’s probation officer, except in the sense that I collected his fine and spoke to him. A parole agent works for the state, and only supervises men and women who’ve been released from prison. We occasionally catch some of their overflow, but even in supervision most of our so-called clients are on probation, not parole.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Marcus was smart, yet like everyone else, he just didn’t get it. She’d read newspaper articles where they referred to a person as a parole agent, then two paragraphs later called him a probation officer. “A person is placed on probation after serving time in jail.”

  He shook his head. “But jail is prison, right?”

  “No,” Carolyn said, slightly louder than she intended. “A jail is supposed to be a presentence detention center—you know, the place you stay while your case is being processed. Technically, an offender isn’t usually sentenced to serve more than a year in jail. Sometimes, though, a person is convicted of a number of minor crimes and ends up serving a longer period of time at the local level. Like DWIs, for instance. Even if a guy racks up four of them, unless he kills someone, he won’t go to prison. When he’s released, he’s generally on formal probation for anywhere from three to five years. Offenders are sentenced to prison for felony offenses, most of them serious.”

  “Jesus,” Marcus said. “This stuff is fascinating. Why don’t they have a show about it on TV?”

  “Because no one is interested,” Carolyn told him, chewing on a piece of skin near her nail. “Either that, or it’s too hard to explain.” She hadn’t told him about wobblers, crimes that gave the judge an option of choosing prison or jail, depending on the circumstances. The judicial ruling applied there was that the probation officer making the recommendation had to determine if the interests of justice would be served by sending the offender to prison. Talking about her work was helping her recover from the confrontation with Troy Anderson. “I’m sorry you had to be involved in that scene at the restaurant,” she said. “Things like that happen occasionally. Generally they occur at the office, but every now and then, someone snags you when you’re out in public.”

  “What you do is dangerous,” Marcus remarked. “Not only that, it’s complex. The way it sounds, you do most of the judge’s work, then have to stand by helpless while he screws everything up.”

  “You summed it up about right,” Carolyn said, forcing a smile. “You left out one major element, though. I get paid only a fraction of what a judge earns, and he doesn’t have to get his hands dirty dealing with criminals.”

  “That’s not right,” Marcus told her.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Carolyn asked. “For some of us, life isn’t fair.”

  Margaret was placing the Open House sign in the trunk of her Mercedes when they pulled up in front of the house, so at least Carolyn knew she could go inside. The real estate agent stared at the Jaguar, thinking Marcus was a potential buyer. Carolyn waved her away. Margaret placed her fingers near her mouth and ear, mouthing the words, “Call me.”

  “Are you staying in the area after you sell your house?”

  “I have to because of my job,” Carolyn told him. “And my family lives here. My son is going to college next year, and I have a fifteen-year-old daughter. Education is expensive these days, so I decided to cash in some of my equity.”

  “I can’t believe you have a son old enough to go to college,” he exclaimed. “You look too young.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Carolyn said, reaching for the door handle. When he seemed to be losing interest in her, she asked, “Will I see you again?”

  “Of course.” Marcus rummaged around in his pockets, coming up empty-handed. “If you have a pen and something to write on, I’ll give you my number. I don’t have a card right now.”

  “That would be nice,” Carolyn said, leaning over and pecking him on the cheek. She handed him a dry cleaner’s receipt and a pen. She certainly didn’t want to let this one get away. That is, if he was genuinely interested. She wasn’t used to calling men, but that was the way things were today.

  “You were wonderful this afternoon,” she told him, accepting the paper with his number on it. “The accident, driving me to the repair shop, everything. Our lunch was an oasis in the middle of my otherwise chaotic life. Maybe if there’s a next time, we won’t be bothered by someone like Troy Anderson.”

  “I learned some things I didn’t know,” Marcus told her, getting out of the car and preparing to walk her to the door. “Seems like you’re putting up a good fight, but the criminals are winning.”

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked when he appeared to be lingering at the door. She saw the artificial flowers lining the walkway and turned away, hoping not to draw his attention to them. He might be able to tell they weren’t real. At least the house was clean.

  “No, no,” he said, looking at his watch. “I have to meet a business associate. I was driving around in circles while we were talking, so I need to run. Next time, maybe.”

  “Next time, then,” Carolyn said, unlocking her front door and waiting until he’d jumped into his convertible and sped away.

  Business associate, she thought, flopping down on the sofa, her legs sprawled out in front of her. Marcus probably had a date and she’d never see him again. Regardless, outside of the confrontation with Troy Anderson, it had been a pleasant day.

  It was late, after eleven. A tall man dressed in a long, dark coat, wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses, paid the cab driver and took off on foot, disappearing into the shadows.

  After a brisk ten-minute walk, he unlocked the main gate to Eagle Self-Storage, continuing on until he reached his rental unit. Pulling a baseball bat from underneath his coat, he jumped up and smashed the spotlight near his stall,
ducking so he wouldn’t be struck by the shattered glass.

  His storage unit was at the end of the street, so the area around him was bathed in darkness. Inside was everything he needed—a black Ford pickup and some assorted tools. Stretching out a blanket in the bed of the truck, he loaded a shovel, a hammer, a rake, two ice picks, and a box of heavy-duty garbage bags. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he went outside and filled a bucket with water from the spigot. After carrying it back into the storage unit, he squirted in some Lysol liquid soap, then spent the next thirty minutes scrubbing down the concrete floors and thinly coated white walls with a large sponge. The rent was paid for the next six months, but after tonight, he had no intention of returning.

  Picking up another blanket, he spread it over the contents in the back of the truck. Before he left, he stood inside the shed with the door closed, his eyes searching the walls and floors to make certain he had removed everything and that the place was thoroughly clean.

  He’d already sanded the VIN numbers off the truck several months ago. When he was finished with the tools, he would clean them, then dump them at a construction site. Everything else, including the cowboy hat he was wearing, his jeans, shirt, coat, underwear, and socks, would be packed inside the duffel bag and later deposited inside a locker at one of the 24 Hour Fitness Centers. He’d purchased a membership under a fictitious name, which offered unlimited access to every club in the chain.

  With present technology, it was a snap to create a new identity. He was surprised there weren’t more people like him. If a person paid attention to what he was doing, and possessed the ability to conceive and execute the right plan, the chances were good that he would never be apprehended.

  Backing the truck out of the shed, he was pleased no one was around. He got out and put the padlock in place on the door before exiting the parking lot. The storage company was in a good location, a block from the freeway on-ramp. Traffic was light this time of day, which was good, as he had some manual labor ahead of him as well as a fairly long drive to reach his final destination.

  Fifteen minutes later, he drove through the darkened streets where the first phase of the development was being constructed. The wind had picked up, and it made a strange high-pitched sound as it blew through the framed houses. Reaching into the car’s glove compartment, he brought out some dark glasses and put them on, not wanting to get dirt in his eyes when he reached the area where the grave was located.

  Sometimes the police made the rounds, probably for perks given to them by the developers. Occasionally they used unpopulated areas to park and take a nap, or to work on their reports. To make certain they didn’t spot his truck and become curious, he parked it inside what would eventually become a garage in one of the unfinished houses. If the police spotted it, which was unlikely, they would assume it belonged to one of the workmen.

  He walked briskly in the direction of the grave, carrying the shovel, an ice pick, and the hammer rolled up in one of the blankets. He had several garbage bags stuffed in his jacket pocket. He carefully counted off the paces, then stopped and began digging. The moon was out, providing light. A flashlight could draw attention, and he’d become accustomed to working in the dark. He hadn’t buried the body that deep, as he’d wanted the heat and insects to speed up the decomposition process. The previous summer had been a scorcher. By then she had already been in the ground for a long time.

  His calculations were accurate. He first thought it was another rock he’d hit, but when he reached down and picked it up, it turned out to be a skull. Sitting Indian style on the ground, he felt it with his fingers. A few strands of hair were still attached, so he plucked them out and let the wind carry them away.

  The teeth were already gone, having fallen out once the flesh had either decayed or had been consumed by insects and other animals. The remaining teeth he picked up with his gloved fingers, dropping them in one of the garbage bags and sealing it to be discarded later. It wasn’t difficult to find the teeth as the body had been facedown and they were all only a few inches apart. He didn’t count them; he didn’t think it was necessary. A tooth or two would just get scooped up in the clumps of earth when the site was graded for the new housing tract. Even if the body was eventually identified, which he had taken measures to forestall as long as possible, no one would ever trace it back to the original burial site.

  The rest of the bones he picked up one by one, depositing them in the second plastic bag. Rummaging through the dirt, he was finally satisfied that he’d gotten everything. Her clothes had been removed and burned before he’d buried her.

  The sack containing the bones was surprisingly light. He knew this was due to their state of decay. In addition to the hot summer, they’d had heavy rains the year before, enough to cause mud slides and road closures. Even the weather had worked in his favor.

  Instead of placing the sacks in the bed of the truck, he placed them in the cab on the floorboard. Having stored a bag of garbage the last time he’d visited his storage unit, he dumped the contents on top of the bones. If the police stopped him for some reason, one whiff of the stinking refuse would be enough to discourage them from wanting to sort through the rest of the contents. He would just tell them that he’d been meaning to take his trash to the Dumpster but had been too busy to get around to it. His face was smudged with dirt, and there were perspiration stains under the armpits of his shirt, so it wouldn’t require much to make the police believe he was the kind of man who would do such a thing.

  He removed the dark glasses so he could see to drive. The mustache and black hair color were long gone, having served their purpose. Once he’d decided to dispose of the woman, he’d intentionally guzzled beer, quickly developing an unsightly gut, which he made look even larger by wearing his pants a size too small. The extra weight was also gone. Like a snake shedding his skin, he’d discarded most of what linked him to the woman. Now all he had to do was dump his problems at the new location, and drive to a nearby town where there was a 24 Hour Fitness Center.

  After he completed his workout, jumped in the shower, soaked in the Jacuzzi, then dried off in the sauna, he would put on a fresh set of clothes, leaving the clothes he was wearing behind in the duffel bag. His membership card would be tossed in the nearest trash can. He would remove the plates on the truck and park it on a street in an area not served by the same police agency where he intended to bury the bones. After a week, maybe a month, the police would tow the truck as an abandoned vehicle. When no one came to claim it and no stolen vehicle report was found on file, the city would auction the truck off to pay the storage fees.

  Within a matter of hours, this particular problem would be solved. If everything worked as planned, the woman whose bones now sat in the bottom of a plastic bag would be nothing more than a fading memory. Even at this stage, it seemed as if she’d never existed. In time, the police could hook him up to a lie detector, show him a picture of her, and he could safely say he had never seen her before in his life.

  His ability to believe his own lies was one of his finer traits. Killing someone and getting away with it was the ultimate game. Overall, however, murder was similar to marriage—nothing more than a convenience. Why spend a year in divorce court, or take a chance some psycho broad would end up on your doorstep and shoot you? As long as they pleased him, they lived. When they started complaining, arguing, or poking into his private affairs, his motto was simple.

  Kill them, bury them, and walk away.

  When he went to bed at night, he slept like a baby.

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday, September 18—11:15 A.M.

  Death should be powerful enough to punch out the sun, Carolyn thought, but this was California. While people killed each other, the palm trees swayed in the breeze, waves washed up on the shore, and multicolored perennials bloomed along perfectly manicured parkways.

  Carolyn drove west on Victoria Boulevard, where the government center was located, and steered John’s Honda Civic onto the ramp
for the 101 freeway. The city was building a new overpass at the Santa Rosa River, causing traffic to snarl during rush hours. When it was finished, the bridge would be illuminated with old-fashioned street lights that resembled lanterns, adding a touch of charm to an area that had formerly been unsightly. The crime rate was so high, large pieces of construction equipment were suspended in the air at night and on weekends to keep people from stealing them.

  Exiting at Vista Del Mar, a short distance from the Pierpont Inn, Carolyn saw the sign for the Alessandro Lagoon and made a sharp right. She stopped when she saw the string of police cars, CSI units, unmarked detective units and the coroner’s panel vans. Human remains had been discovered Sunday night in the lagoon that ran adjacent to the 101 freeway. In her rearview mirror, she could see the Ventura Pier and the Holiday Inn, both local landmarks. Beyond that was the shimmering blue of the Pacific Ocean.

  Turning off the ignition, Carolyn opened the car door, removed her shoes, and exchanged them for a pair of old tennis shoes, wishing she’d brought a pair of rain boots. It was difficult to see much of anything from the narrow access road. Depending on rainfall, the lagoon consisted of shallow water, with dry patches in between. Reeds grew six or seven feet high, and there was a good deal of scrub brush. The area was protected with a six-foot-high chain-link fence, but several sections had either fallen down or had been forced open by trespassers.

  Looking beyond the uniformed officers protecting the crime scene, she spotted Detective Mary Stevens, but she didn’t see Hank Sawyer. Mary was usually easy to find. A striking black woman in her early thirties, she looked as if she belonged on the cover of a magazine rather than exhuming a body. She always wore a red shirt when performing that task, calling it her murder shirt. Even with the white overalls she was wearing today, the red shirt showed through.