Steve’s shorts: WREK…
[Note from Steve: Here’s another Chen & Castilblanco case as a short story. Enjoy.]
WREK
Copyright 2019, Steven M. Moore
Chen and her husband Eric had taken off on a vacation to Costa Rica. Pam and I had some time off too, but not enough money for that kind of vacation. Our little old house in Brooklyn we’d bought to make more of a home for our adopted children Ceci and Pedrito came with a stiff mortgage. It was getting so only one-percenters could live there. Prices were up all over the NYC area. Even with two salaries, we were just making out.
Pam’s old aunt in Port Jefferson, not far from SUNY’s main campus, came to our rescue. We became house-sitters while she was in New Orleans. A stay-cation, I guess—beaches and sun next to a nice old house.
Within a day, that house spoiled me. Four bedrooms, living and family rooms, and so forth were going to make our Brooklyn house seem even smaller when we returned. We had a great time until the third day. It was morning and I was walking around the backyard with my mug of coffee, pretending like I was a rich SOB. Our whole Brooklyn backyard could fit in the aunt’s flower garden. Wouldn’t want to be the one mowing her lawns, but I thought she probably had a gardener. Hadn’t seen him yet.
I saw two feet sticking out from under some kind of bush with sharp points on its leaves. I grew up in the city, so I was no expert on plant life. Didn’t matter.
Squatted without spilling the java and looked under the bush. The feet were attached to a body. Being a cop, I didn’t touch a damn thing. Stood, took out my smart phone, and called 9-1-1.
***
The local detective—I wasn’t quite sure where he was from—flashed his badge: Joseph P. Ricci. He’d entered the yard with the CSIs. I tried to stay out of everyone’s way. Eventually went back into the house to sit with Pam. The kids had ridden their bikes off somewhere.
“Should you call the station?” I asked Pam.
“Let’s see what the detective says,” she said. “For all we know, this man died of natural causes.”
“Yeah, no crime news there.” My wife had started her TV career as a crime reporter. “Maybe he’s the gardener and has been there since your aunt left. That’s a whole weekend plus a day. Or he could be the victim of a local MS 13 gang killing.”
“Which, sad to say, wouldn’t be news anymore either.”
“Is for me. They’ve been killing people for years. Mostly other kids who won’t join them, though.”
At that point, Detective Ricci came into the family room. I gave him credit for wiping his feet. We went through the usual interrogation routine about who we were and what we were doing there. Joe asked to see my creds too. I asked him details about the body in our backyard.
“The victim’s name is James Watson. He’s famous in the area—or infamous, depending on your political predilections. He ran a talk show on WREK radio. His throat’s slit. Hands are gone too.”
“Come again? What’s WREK? As I explained, we’re not from around here.” Pam looked at me.
“Yeah, I realize that. WREK’s one of those radio stations that blast out hate and bigotry under the cover of the First Amendment. They’re pretty common. They feature some syndicated crap too, but Joe was the local guy, spewing out all kinds of conspiracy theories along with his invectives.”
“So maybe someone didn’t like that?” I said.
“Friends, enemies, and frenemies. Advertisers loved him, right-wingers, racists, and neo-Nazis loved him, but a lot of people would just like to see him shut up. Maybe for good. That includes many true conservatives who are often embarrassed by what he says.”
“How interesting,” said Pam. “Maybe this will make a good story.”
***
I forgot about the whole incident…until I couldn’t. Two days later Detective Ricci returned. I walked him through to the patio where Pam and I were doing lunch.
“Can I offer you some iced tea?” Pam said. “Or a sandwich?”
He sat down across from me and catty-corner from Pam. “No thanks. Just had a Reuben and an iced coffee with it. I’m trying to contact Detective Dao-Ming Chen, your partner, Mr. Castilblanco.”
“Good luck with that, Joe.” I figured the Mr. Castilblanco was a bit formal. Wasn’t about to call him Mr. Ricci either. “She’s on vacation in Costa Rica.”
“Thought it might be something like that. Your precinct wouldn’t give out that information.”
“What do you need to chat about with her? Maybe I can help.”
“You know the drill. We have a list of people who had altercations with the victim.”
“Chen? She’d be the first to get on the First Amendment bandwagon, that’s for sure. She’s as conservative as hell. True conservative and not a nut like the victim. Good cop, though. What was the altercation about?”
“Road rage. Witnesses said that Mr. Watson tongue-lashed Ms. Chen, calling her a Chink whore and telling her to go back to her country.” Joe looked at Pam. “Sorry, ma’am, but that’s what he said according to his own admission—it was right on the police report—and some worse things too.”
I smiled. “Extremely amusing. Guess Watson didn’t know who Chen is. She could take him down, rip his balls off, and stuff them down his throat. Ex-military, like me. He was lucky. She grew up around here, by the way. American through and through. What happened after the verbal abuse?”
“Same witnesses said she just stared him down and he finally walked away.”
“Good for her,” said Pam. “That’s my Chen. Unless the SOB physically threatened her, she wouldn’t do much. Or even say much.”
“Question is: Did she hate Watson enough to kill him?”
“What?” Pam and I both said. “What makes you suspect that?” I said.
“Like I said, just the drill. Have a list, checking it twice, seeing who’s been naughty or nice.”
“I don’t suppose she’ll mind telling you what she thought of Watson when she returns, but you’d better find some other suspects.” I winked at Pam. “The crime’s MO just doesn’t match anything Chen would do.”
“But she might think about doing it?”
“Not Chen. She’s Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel all rolled up in one person. On a moral crusade to protect all good citizens from miscreants.”
“Okay. My duty with Chen is done. But my trip out here had another purpose. I could use some help, detective. It’s vacation time, as you know. Think you could help me out on the NYPD end?”
“In what way?”
“Just find out if Watson had any priors in any of the five boroughs. You have connections I don’t. He lived in Queens, for example, and he’s a hothead. He made someone mad enough to kill him.”
***
I worked on that the rest of the afternoon. Watson wasn’t just a hothead. He was a drunk. He’d been arrested for DUI several times along with speeding in his BMW, once on one of the bridges. That night I went online to listen to some podcasts he’d made of his radio show rants.
Not bad stuff, if you were into that kind of thing. Had a nice, pleasant baritone voice with a bit of rasp to it. Talked about how “Deep State” liberals controlled everything, how they were planning to take over the world, yadda-yadda. Even an international spiel about how Prince Harry’s wife Meghan was going to assassinate the Queen. Good for a few laughs. I’d heard some of that stuff before. It’s a free country, after all. Let’em rant. The other side did it too. If people didn’t like it, they could ignore it. It bothered me, though, that someone was paying James Watson a lot of money to blast the airwaves with his conspiracy theories.
Important question: Was any of that crap enough to make someone want to kill Watson? I didn’t think so. Told Ricci that the next morning.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Don’t see it as an us-versus-them case. What was going on in Watson’s life? Besides all the rants, that is. What’s the significance of the hands?”
“Good point. Any ideas?”
“Hands do things. Maybe Watson was a pervert. Maybe he was a failed carpenter and threatened some worker with a hammer. Maybe he took a pottery class and blamed his teacher for his failures. I don’t know. But the hands are significant. Why were they cut off? And where are they? Maybe if we find the hands, we’ll find the killer.”
“That’s dark,” said Ricci.
“Hell, he complained about the ‘Deep State.’ That’s dark too.” Told him about the DUIs. “Who knows? Maybe he did something bad to someone once in a dark, drunk funk, but his victim was afraid to come forward until now. ‘Forward’ meaning killing him. Revenge. That’s a strong emotion.”
“You have a devious mind.”
“Call it experience. I’m never surprised about how some people can do such terrible things to other people. Some justify it, some don’t bother, but there’s usually some motivation. Let’s dig into this guy’s past, Joe.”
***
We spent two days at it, basically ruining our vacation. Pam took the kids to the beaches, so they didn’t lose much—just me. We were working late at night on that second day when we found it. At least the possibility.
Pam and the kids were already in bed.
“Check this out, Joe.”
He came around the kitchen table and looked over my shoulder at my laptop’s screen. “Date rape? That was ages ago.”
“So were the cases corresponding to the Golden State Killer. This isn’t a cold case, though. The jury didn’t believe the poor girl.”
“Just because he’s a right-wing nut doesn’t make him a rapist. And why would that grown woman go after him now.”
“Got me. Let’s dig into her life.”
We found the woman had committed suicide a bit over a year ago.
“You see. It can’t be her.”
I nodded. “Guess not. Sure looked promising, though. Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be interviewing more station personnel. Maybe tomorrow evening.”
I bid the detective good evening but returned to the kitchen table. Searched for the girl’s name. Nada. Searched for her last name. Bingo! Someone with the same last name had a website dedicated to exposing victims of sexual predators. Some famous names were there. The girl’s wasn’t. But who ran the website?
Turned out it was the girl’s uncle, the father’s brother. The father was already dead. Maybe the uncle had a favorite niece?
The more I read, the more suspicious I became. Was there enough to make a case? We’d have to talk to the uncle.
I called Ricci. “Maybe I’ve got something.”
We found the uncle lived in Bethpage, NY, also on Long Island. I’d taken Pedrito to nearby Jones Beach once to see the Bethpage Air Show.
Ricci knocked on the door. No one home? I heard footsteps, though, and the sound of a sliding door.
“Out back!” I said.
The uncle was halfway down the block. I let Ricci chase him. His collar, after all.
They found the hands in the guy’s freezer once the search warrant arrived. One of those battery-operated saws in the garage with blood still on it. Case closed.
I kind of liked the uncle, though. Given similar circumstances, I might have done something similar. The niece’s suicide had triggered the murder. Maybe the uncle would get time off for good behavior. He had no record.
***
Comments are always welcome.
Rogue Planet. Sci-fi books are generally “evergreen” books (so are all the books in the “Detectives Chen & Castilblanco” series), at least the ones involving the future of human beings in our galaxy—they never get old. This is one of mine. If you read A.B. Carolan’s Mind Games, you’ve learned how difficult it is for ITUIP (“Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets”) to control the colonization of new worlds and bring them into the trade union. Eden is such a world, forced back into virtual savagery after one tribe takes over and establishes a brutal theocracy. It’s up to the son of the deposed king to do something about that. Hard sci-fi with Game-of-Thrones fantasy elements, action, suspense, and intrigue await this novel’s reader. Available on Amazon in both ebook and print format, and in ebook format on Smashwords and all its affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.).
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
