FINE POINTS MALICE AND PAYBACK

Rookie Tucson Detective Andrew Coates who spent months going through several cold-case files connects investigation dots of three unsolved murders. With a fourth victim discovered his captain assigns the nervous novice. But when the harried detective begins to fall for the sister of a fifth victim, the mystery of his own life returns to haunt him. Abandoned at birth then raised in foster care he had no idea who he was...

CHAPTER 1…

“Fleming! Why the hell did you assign a possible serial murder case to someone as green as Coates?”

Police Chief Pedro Perez shook his head, turning away. Outside his office window a tree lizard scurried up the trunk of a palm tree. “We have a fourth murder victim. And that victim has a related cause of death to three others!” The profile of his square chin and long slender nose was in silhouette, with the chief’s deeply receding hairline almost hidden in the shaded corner.

“Budget cuts mainly, Chief.” Arthur Fleming sighed, resisting a habit when frustrated of running his fingers through his carefully cut, graying brown hair. 

“All of my detectives are working other open cases plus at least half a dozen cold-cases too.”

“I realize Coates is inexperienced, but he still doesn’t have a partner - or any open cases and he’s the one who linked the first three. I had assigned him to review only cold files to get him started. I didn’t anticipate that any of them would be connected.” 

“Besides, I’ve directed Coates to report directly to me every day. He may be the youngest officer to make detective, but his IQ is the highest.” Captain Fleming shrugged. “With the right guidance Andrew Coates has great potential.”

When the police chief returned to his desk chair, his tone was low and measured. “I don’t want someone with potential investigating a violent serial killer – I want someone with experience investigating a violent serial killer.”  

“I agree. But remember each of the three previous murders, were at least a year apart and because each one had been investigated by different lead detectives, it wasn’t until those cold-case files landed on Coates’ desk that the similarities were even flagged.”

“Okay. I’ll give the kid that, but I got a preliminary copy of the M.E. report from Dr. Lopez. It arrived even before my Wall Street Journal and before I had my first morning coffee.” 

Tucson Police Chief Perez handed an unlabelled file to the police captain. “Here.” The folder was open with a single sheet of paper stapled in place on the right side.

Fleming scanned the few typed lines then looked up obviously shaken. “Carol Huntington? She’s the fourth victim? Holy…” His voice faded as he reread the medical examiner’s initial findings.

Chief Perez leaned forward with his arms folded across the top of his desk. “Same mutilation pattern, except Huntington wasn’t a hooker nor was there any evidence of sexual intercourse prior to death like the first three.”

“Which, brings us back to my original very deep concern, Captain Fleming. Because of this,” Perez pointed to the medical examiner’s report, “those three cold-cases now take on a sharper significance.”

The captain didn’t look up.

“Fleming?”

Arthur Fleming closed the file folder then handed it back to Chief Perez. “Right, sure does. Every detective we’ve got will want this one. Don’t worry. I’ll park Coates right outside my door.” Captain Fleming stood to leave. “If that’s all, sir I better keep Coates moving.”

“Send me regular updates at least once a day, even if there’s no change – understood?”

“Understood.”

………..

Captain Fleming’s long legs stretched across the elevator threshold even before the doors opened fully.

“Coates, my office!” The pace of his stride was a rush, by several scattered desks directly to his office.

Third floor Robbery-Homicide was almost deserted except for two other detectives - Sergeant Lucia Mendoza, and her homicide investigating partner Lieutenant Clarence Brayburn. Their desks were set on the east side of the open room against a wall of windows. An early morning Arizona sun bounced light off the glass from the office windows across the street.

Detective Brayburn waited impatiently for copies of information from a slow printer. His typical two day beard merged with the sideburns of his close cut black curly hair. He wore the same dark grey tie everyday regardless of his shirt choice. 

Lucia Mendoza, Brayburn’s fashion opposite - made written notes interviewing a witness from her desk phone. Typically her long deep brunette colored hair was braided and pinned high on her head. She wore one of her many crisp tailored suits as if she never sat at a desk. 

Startled, Andrew stood so abruptly his desk chair rolled several feet, bumping into a metal file cabinet behind him.He smoothed his sand colored hair and adjusted his tie under a white button-down collar. Hurrying to catch up to his captain he looked down checking the crease on the front leg of his khaki cotton pants.

The captain still holding his briefcase had stopped in front of his office window. His back was to the office door and his rookie detective.“I just came from a meeting with Chief Perez, whose trying to keep the mayor calm.  What’da ya got for me?”

“Everything’s the same as the other three, sir.” Andrew remained standing, nervous and unsure of what to do with his hands. “Except this victim wasn’t a hooker, she was a Lutheran Church pastor.” The captain didn’t move. “And?”

“Oh, yeah, Dr. Lopez said there was no sign of any pre-death sexual activity, like the others.”

“So, not, exactly the same is that correct Detective?” Fleming spoke still looking out of his office window. He didn’t trust his emotions, needing to maintain his image.

“Aw, no sir, that would be correct. Sorry sir.” Andrew felt foolish, he knew better. Accuracy, obscure details, and fine points made all the difference between a solid case and a case with holes. But his elevated heart rate made speaking difficult, jamming his brain cells in a holding-pattern.

“When do you see Father Reynolds?”

“I was ready to leave for the church when you arrived, sir. Did you want to come with me?”

“No. When will the crime scene photos be ready?”

“They could be on my computer now, sir. Ms Huntington’s body was discovered just before midnight. Would you like me to forward copies to you?”

The captain shook his head. “Print them off when you get back. We can go over them and your interview with Father Reynolds then.”

………..

At one time Father Fredric Reynolds had been a formidable hockey player with dreams of a career in the NHL. However, a water skiing accident between college semesters damaged his left shoulder too badly to consider any professional sport let alone the National Hockey League.

Decades later at sixty-one it was difficult for the young detective to visualize the Lutheran pastor qualified for any other role than that of Saint Nicholas. Through the years, Fredric Reynolds had become the shape of a pear and his red hair had faded to the color of icing sugar.

Reynolds was missing a long white beard, but his pale blue eyes and sunburned cheeks fit the rest of Madison Avenue’s advertising portrait of Chris Cringle – though perhaps a disorganized one. 

The pastor’s mahogany paneled office was a square sixteen by sixteen foot room at the back corner of the ninety-year-old mission style church in the center of Tucson. The walls, unlike any horizontal surfaces were almost bare. Small, high windows let in light partially blocked by the shadows of taller buildings outside. 

Pastor Reynolds had to clear several papers from the seat of a chair by his desk before Detective Coates could sit.

“Thank you sir.” Coates skipped small talk heading directly to his listed questions.

“Do you know of any appointments that Reverend Huntington had scheduled for this week Father? I ask this because when the break-in was first noticed uniformed officers on the scene called detectives from robbery, but all that was listed as missing was Huntington’s laptop and cell phone.”

Father Reynolds retrieved his bound date book from a lower desk drawer appreciating how tense the young detective was. “I prefer paper.” Smiling at the eager novice, he opened his date book to that week marked with a large paperclip.

“Carol was more tech savvy. She used her phone and her computer. However, since we went to nearly every hospital and assisted-living facility as a team I can make a photocopy of my datebook and anything else you might need. But as far as her office counseling sessions, only our church secretary, Hazel Woods will have that information.”

Andrew added the secretary’s name to his interview list. “Thank you again, sir.” He scrolled down from his first question to his second.

“Was anyone hanging around the church over the last few weeks, or months you didn’t recognize or who may have made you or anyone else here uneasy?”

The pastor shook his head. “Frankly there’s been no one or nothing unusual we couldn’t handle around Saint Luther’s since I’ve been here. Oh, let’s see – eight years now.”

“And – to answer what I might guess to be your next question, I know Carol was never concerned about anyone either and she, was at Saint Luther’s almost as long. Eighteen months after I arrived I lured her away from the police department as I’m sure you know.” Father Reynolds’ smile was that of an impish child who had snitched an extra cookie.

Andrew looked up from typing notes into his ePad. “No I didn’t know. I only joined the Tucson police nine months ago. It’s only been seven months since I passed my detective exams. For three years before that I was in uniform and on traffic patrol in Casa Grande.”

The pastor nodded. “Well Carol was staff psychologist with Tucson, Internal Affairs Division. But the volunteer work she did at Saint Luther’s was so impressive that with the Lutheran Church open to ordaining women too, I lobbied her quite relentlessly to leave police work and join the ministry.”

“I don’t mind telling you that Police Chief Perez was not happy with me at all – at all, but she still counseled police officers after she resigned. She saw a couple dozen regularly and others intermittently.”

“Son, Carol Huntington had that rare combination of instinct, logic, compassion and humor.” The pastor stopped to collect himself. “I’ll miss her,” his voice caught. “Everyone I know will miss her.”

Detective Coates took a photo of the pastor’s date book for each week in the previous month of January and for that week of February. After interviewing Hazel Woods, she printed out a current congregation list then he photographed the secretary’s calendar for Pastor Huntington’s counseling sessions, time and client names scheduled for the first six weeks of the New Year and the previous four years.

He scrolled from screen to screen studying some of the names he had yet to interview then checked the accumulating documentation in the paper file box on his passenger seat. Andrew wondered as he replaced the lid if there such a thing as too much information and too many possible suspects? It was so much easier to hide in a crowd.

Andrew zigzagged across Tucson for the rest of that day and the next three days, interviewing obvious people like clients scheduled for the week of and prior to Pastor Huntington’s death and the not so obvious. The couple planning to marry, were just as nervous as he was, so were neighbors and clerks at small businesses where the pastor shopped regularly.

Saturday morning in his apartment, wearing plaid boxers and a faded University of Arizona t-shirt, Andrew finished typing up his latest notes and conclusions. With a discouraged sigh he hit the SEND button with an email copy to his captain.

Monday morning, Andrew with his file box and crime scene photos was back in Captain Fleming’s office.

Fleming sat at his desk and watched as Coates lined each photo in a neat row across the evidence-case board. With most of the photos in place, Detective Coates stood back by his captain’s desk.

Both men studied the gruesome images in silence. 

Like a surreal halo a pool of blood circled the latest victim’s head from the same type of wound inflicted on the previous three victims. 

Pastor Huntington’s office had been trashed. Pictures ripped from the walls, lamps knocked over, all flat surfaces cleared with everything pushed to the floor.

“What do you see in each and every one of these photos, Detective Coates?”

With his heart pounding again and praying he didn’t say something stupid the rookie spoke from the base of a developing hunch. “Rage sir. This looks personal, like someone was real pissed.”

CHAPTER 2…

Crime scene photos of the fourth murder had been removed from the evidence case-board, replaced by a head photo of each victim in life. Below each picture Coates wrote their name, age, place and date of death neatly in felt marker.

When Andrew wasn’t working in the captain’s office, the board remained covered. Arthur Fleming couldn’t bear to look at the faces, especially Carol.

As the end of February, approached, the police chief pushed hard for a connection among the four women. And until Pastor Huntington’s death there had been a connection. 

Because each of the first three victims had been prostitutes Coates first theory, was that some misguided puritan-minded sociopath had a grudge against streetwalkers. But with Carol Huntington’s death that assumption no longer worked unless the pastor had a secret lifestyle as yet undiscovered.

When Detective Coates wasn’t updating his computer investigation notes at his apartment or at the police station – he was wading through a round of new interviews and then comparing them with all of the older interviews.

One by one, he eliminated church parishioners, store clerks, family, some teachers, police officers in counseling, other church personnel and known friends. Three weeks after Carol Huntington’s murder, the novice detective had interviewed and cleared three-hundred and seventy-eight people.

Captain Fleming was impressed by the detailed thoroughness of the rookie. He hadn’t anticipated that. As he read through Coates’ latest update, he shook his head knowing the chief expected results leading to an arrest, not just statistics. But the novice detective had methodically eliminated a huge field of relevant people.

Victim Case Summary:

·         2 widows, 2 single

·         2 Caucasian, 1 Black, 1 Hispanic

·         2 in their 30s, 1 in her 20s, 1 in her 40s

·         2 killed in month of March, 1 killed in Jan, 1 killed in Feb

·         3 known prostitutes, 1 therapist/church minister

·         3 died in their apartment, 1 died in her office

·         3 tested positive for semen in their vaginas prior to death, 1 had no semen present

·         4 childless

·         4 died from single axe blow to the lower side of their skulls, behind left ear by the same weapon, with the same physical mutilation to the abdomen by the same wide blade knife, commonly sold for any restaurant or residential kitchen use.

a] Fourth and latest victim [& case anomaly] had not accepted any new clients for eighteen months. The last was a couple seeking help with their teen’s depression.

b] None of the first three victims had been counseled by fourth victim, nor were any of the previous victims members of Saint Luther’s Church.

c] Still searching for ‘any’ similarities between witness statements and tip notes from cold-case files. Hope to find possible witnesses who were near Saint Luther’s the night Pastor Huntington was attacked. Regards, Detective Andrew Coates.

Captain Fleming worried the chief might soon insist that he assign someone else to take over, so the captain decided to take a more active role. When he hit the email FORWARD choice, he conveyed as such in a note to reassure Police Chief Perez.

………..

Mount Lemon Park covered an entire city block directly across the street from Saint Luther’s Church. Mature native desert plants and trees were plentiful. It was used and enjoyed by most of the surrounding office workers along with seventeen homeless people who regularly made use of the park’s benches in shaded areas.

Detective Coates had stopped by the park twice before. No office workers came to the park after they left work for the day. The nearest restaurant was three blocks away and with parking in the opposite direction none of those patrons came to the park after dark either.

The homeless population seemed a more likely resource. However, no matter how he approached any of the people, when he was spotted and they scattered like startled birds.

On his third try – using Detective Brayburn’s suggestion – he abandoned his polished shoes, sport jacket, white shirt and suit tie for his college runners, wrinkled pants and a faded shirt. And this time, Andrew emerged from the front door of the church carrying his cardboard file box emptied to make room for takeout burgers and fries.

An aroma cloud of warm food followed him to the central fountain. With the box resting on a nearby bench two women of an undetermined age were the first to show themselves from behind a grouping of agave and pampas grass.

“You sharing that?” A thin hand with broken and yellowed nails pointed to the box.

“Yes ma’am I sure am. My name is Andrew.” He reached into the box for two small brown bags. “There’s a burger and fries in each of these.” He extended both arms toward the women holding the bags by the tips of his fingers in easy reach. 

Andrew noticed three men standing a few feet away to his right. “Gentlemen?” He quickly pulled out three more bags then passed them out.

All three men hesitated.

“Go ahead.” The first woman’s words were muffled by her food packed mouth. “He’s just a kid,” she swallowed, “barely shavin.” 

Both women laughed as they walked away.

With uncut hair and full face beards it was difficult to guess the age of the men. The boldest and the one who appeared to be the youngest had greenish-brown eyes with coffee colored skin, much lighter than Detective Brayburn.

He was dressed, slightly better than the other two men with him in a worn grey cotton jacket, white t-shirt, grass stained tan cotton pants and scuffed black leather sandals.

“My name is Andrew…” Abruptly the bags were snatched from his hands and the men hurried away.

In less than seven minutes all except two of his twenty brown bags were gone, and he hadn’t been able to get a conversation started with any of the homeless people in the park.

Discouraged, he sat by his partially empty cardboard box on the front steps of the church. From across the street the park looked deserted. 

The door behind him opened. “Don’t give up Detective.” Pastor Reynolds walked to the edge of the steps. He sat on the top step too with the file box between them.

“Hey, one for each of us.” The pastor retrieved a bag and opened it. “Oh wonderful, you got cheese and pickles.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense. They’re all watching you and me, so eat.”

They ate their burgers in silence for several minutes. Neither man touched his fries.

“Would you consider yourself a shy person Detective or fairly outgoing?” Pastor Reynolds had eaten half his burger.

Andrew stopped in mid-bite. “More reserved than outgoing, but I like police work. Why?” He bit and chewed.

Pastor Reynolds crumpled up the foil wrapper from his burger. “The point of my question was that you worked traffic and met people before becoming a detective. As a detective you meet more people.”

“As a pastor I meet people too. You and I serve the public and are fairly balanced, most of the time, but we still don’t automatically warm to strangers right away.”

“Understand Andrew, that for homeless men and women, over half have metal or emotional wounds and the families have retreated for economic or other social reasons. Regardless, of their back-story, they’re all guarded.”

“One trip to the park with one box of lunch isn’t going to help you get the information you need.” Reynolds rolled the top of his bag closed. “I’d like to make an unsolicited suggestion that might work for you?”

Andrew nodded giving up on his food.

“Get familiar. Show up at our local community food kitchen and volunteer a couple of times, so they get to know you.” 

………..

For the rest of the week Andrew read and read and reread and re-interviewed contacts and witnesses from the first three homicides - by day. 

By night Andrew served food at the community kitchen that was two blocks from Saint Luther’s church. However, by the end of the week he hadn’t seen one person he recognized from Mount Lemon Park.

Andrew said goodnight to Pastor Reynolds then walked to his vintage Bronco searching in his jacket pockets for his ignition keys.

“So what’s your real story man?”

Surprised, Detective Coates turned and looked into the eyes of a man you didn’t lie to, not ever, not even a little. 

Andrew recognized the grey jacket from the youngest of the first three homeless men who accepted hamburgers in the park four days before.

“You not from here. You don’t go to that church and you ain’t no do-gooder.”

Coates relaxed. “Actually, I’ve met some pretty amazing people, with even more amazing life stories this week.”

He leaned against the Bronco driver’s door. “But you’re correct I’m not from here. I’m Detective Andrew Coates and I’m investigating the murder of Pastor Carol Huntington.”

“Thought so. You people are never off-duty – never seem to chill even outta uniform. Too bad about the lady pastor. She was special, real nice, real genuine.”

Andrew remained leaning against his Bronco. He studied his key ring for a few seconds not wanting to rush this fragile breakthrough. “You go to Saint Luther’s Church?”

“No.” Grey jacket stepped up on Andrew’s front bumper to sit on the left side of the hood.

Besides the jacket, he also wore the same clothing he had on the day they met in the park. “Vance and Arizona like the hymn music so they listen every Sunday by the fountain.”

“Vance and Arizona?” Andrew frowned moving from the door to lean over the hood next to his windshield.

“Yeah. Vance and me started to hangout. He’s the one with the grey beard and red hair then we found Arizona or he found us. He just stuck around cause we didn’t run him off like everyone else.”

“How’d he get the name Arizona?”

“From me. He couldn’t remember much – hardly anything from his life.” Grey jacket shrugged. “We had to call him something. So, because we live here, Arizona seemed to fit.”

Detective Coates nodded wondering if he should push for this man’s name. Instead he took the pastor’s advice and let what he needed, come to him. 

“I learned a great deal this week from a lot of people with such varied stories. I discovered I truly liked meeting all of them. At least the ones who wanted to talk.”

The detective held out his hand. “Like I said, I’m Andrew.”

The man in the grey cotton jacket didn’t bolt or hesitate this time. “I’m Christos.”

“Greek?”

“Half Greek – well Cypriot actually. My mom was born in Limassol, Cyprus and my dad was born in Jamaica. He joined the U.S. Navy and was stationed on the island of Cyprus for a time.”

He grinned.  “I was born in Alabama, guess that makes me part Greek, part Jamaican and part American.”

“At least you know.” Then Andrew found himself sharing more than he intended. “I have no idea what half of me is what. I grew up in foster care. Apparently I was left in a box at the back door of a pizza restaurant. Since I was wrapped in a wool coat, my social worker made my surname Coates.”

Beginning to feel guarded himself, Andrew pushed away from his car. “Can I give you a lift?”

Christos slid down from the hood. “No thanks, Vance and Arizona are waitin for me over there.” He pointed to an alley, but all Andrew saw was one side of a dumpster.

The two men parted.

That night Christos took a long – slow – drag of his last tip of rolled marijuana. He hadn’t been sleeping well and hoped a little MJ might help.

………..

Dr. Lopez had been Tucson’s medical examiner for twenty-two years. And he’d become Detective Coates’ sounding board since the rookie became detective working mainly in isolation.

Andrew was perched on his usual stool in a corner of the autopsy room. “I’m getting nowhere and it’s starting to get to me.”

“I feel I’ve gathered enough info, maybe too much, but I need some tiny crack of insight. And I need to be the one to find it or I’ll be shuffling through only cold-case files my entire career.”

The seasoned M.E. wrote notes as he examined a heart attack victim. He didn’t look up. “Follow the evidence. You know, that stuff prosecutors like to use for a solid conviction.”

The short, fifty-five year-old doctor was typically calm and decisive. He had juggled a demanding career, married to his high school sweetheart while co-raising three sons and two daughters.

“That’s just it. There’s nothing to follow that leads anywhere. We have sperm DNA, but no match on any prison or criminal data base, state or national. With so many winter tourists I even got the FBI to check the RCMP database in Canada.”

“Still nothing. The sperm could be anyone’s – the killer or a regular call-girl customer, or a random client who has never been arrested so that’s still not solid stuff.”

“We have a boot print tracked from a tipped ashtray in the first murder that matches a boot print left in the dust on the floor by the pastor’s body. That clue wasn’t released to the media.”

“Allowing for the average height of a man’s size eleven boot, medium width - our killer is likely six feet tall, but he could also be two inches shorter or two inches taller. But according to the pressure of the boot’s indentation he is very underweight for his height…”

“Stop,” the doctor looked up. “You have more than you think.”

“Really?”

“What doesn’t fit with what you just told me?”

“Sorry, but way too much is missing.”

The patient M.E. began to stitch up the heart attack victim. “That’s exactly where you look.” He looked over the top of his bifocals. “You look for what’s missing. What might very underweight suggest?”

“A drug addict?” Coates jumped off the corner stool and rushed out the door. He ran the entire six blocks and up three flights to Robbery-Homicide then to his desk.

Detective Clarence Brayburn stood at his desk. He reached for his coffee mug, while Detective Mendoza was talking on her desk phone. Clarence carried his brown stained mug toward the office break room. “You okay Coates? You look like you just saw Elvis.”

“Gonna make a revised investigation list.” Andrew signed into his computer. “Doc Lopez would have made one hell of a detective.” He looked up at the veteran detective.

Brayburn chuckled. “He already is. Let me guess, he advised you to ‘look-for-what’s-missing’, am I correct?”

“Yeah.”

The lieutenant walked away still talking, “Cause that’s the same advice he gave me when I made detective eleven years ago…” His voice faded when he disappeared through a door across the hall.

Andrew cleared his mind then began to type as if his fingers had a mind of their own. The moment he asked a question, an answer came to him: 

*What was missing? Look for a motive.

*Why, were four women murdered the way they were murdered? Rage. Hate, Revenge.

*Why were all four rooms vandalized? All four murders were personal.

*Why were the murders personal? Killer knew each victim.

*How did the killer know all four women? One client.

Andrew was shaking when he stopped typing. ‘Holy shit!’ he thought, ‘the killer knew all four of the targeted women and they knew him.’ 

‘But why was the man who wore the boots deemed underweight by FBI lab techs? Was the killer sick and getting sicker? Did he blame the prostitutes? Had the killer seen Carol Huntington for guidance and then did she suspect her client was a killer?’

He tried to calm his thoughts and keep working in a steady direction. He was sure all four victims had personal contact with one client, a regular client, either physical, emotional or both...

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