What did Cole expect her to do with the note? And why in the world had he picked her?
Her duty was clear. She should pass the message on to the warden or his assistant, but her gut told her that wasn’t the right move. During his debriefing Cole could’ve given the note to prison authorities, but he’d chosen not to. Was he too slow-witted to know the safest action to take? Or was there someone he didn’t trust?
Frankie jammed the crumpled note in her pants pocket, and closed the folder after making notes on Cole’s medical record. She ordered acetaminophen and a sleeping aid for him, added blood pressure, heart rate and other vital signs to his record, but she did not make a note of what he’d said to her, or mention the soggy kite.
Chapter 12
Cruz turned away from the mangled body, afraid he’d toss his breakfast at Detective Flood’s feet. A parole officer usually carried a gun, taser and cuffs, often chased parolees, and regularly apprehended them, but seldom saw this kind of butchery. A fine line of sweat prickled at his hairline and he shuttered his eyes briefly before turning back to the scene.
After getting a closer look, Cruz was pretty sure the victim was his parolee Dickey Hinchey, although much of the face was covered in blood and gore. He recognized the pinky ring Dickey wore on his right hand.
“I think he’s mine,” he whispered in Slater’s ear, one hand on the Sheriff’s shoulder as he knelt over the body.
“Murder weapon?” Slater asked Flood.
“Something sharp. Something blunt.” Flood shrugged and signaled for the ambulance to ease forward onto the grass. “M.E. said to find more, he’ll have to autopsy and test for drugs.”
“This it? No backpack? Nothing else?” Slater asked.
“I’d have said if there was more,” Flood retorted in annoyance. “Just the sleeping bag and what he’s wearing.”
“Who ID’ed him?”
Flood jutted his chin toward the thinning crowd. “One of the street hags – a woman – says she knows him from Jesus Saves, recognized his sleeping bag.” He shook his head at the possibility. “If you can believe her.”
“Get her in interview right away,” Slater advised, ignoring the skeptical look on Flood’s face. He rose from the body and straightened to his full height. “The case is all yours now, Detective Flood.” Slater smiled slyly. “Be sure to keep Officer Cruz in the loop. Could be one of his parolees.” He winked discreetly at Santiago.
"Oh, and ask the M.E. how many blood types he finds." Slater sauntered off, whistling softly, Flood glaring at the Sheriff’s back.
A call came in on Cruz’s cell just after Slater left. Angie from Jesus Saves.
“I wanted to tell you before I notify the police,” she whispered into the phone. “We found Dickey’s backpack. Across Washington Street by that drive-in? In their dumpster.”
Cruz turned away so Flood couldn’t overhear. “Who found it?”
“Sergei. He – he was real upset about Dickey, decided to go dumpster diving even though I told him it’s too early. Nothing good this time of morning.” Angie was babbling, her voice rising. She sounded terrified.
“How’d he know it was – uh, the right one?”
“He didn’t at first, brought it here to the office. Jesus, Cruz, it’s in the bathroom now. Layin’ on the floor, all – all wet and bloody-like.”
“What?” Cruz dug his fingers into his temple.
“Yeah, but I could tell it was Dickey’s. Got this Forty-niners signature on it – Joe Montana.” She hiccupped quietly. “Dickey was always so proud of that.”
“Don’t say anything to anyone until I get there, and keep Sergei under wraps.” Cruz pressed the end button. The backpack, if it did belong to Dickey Hinchey, had been tossed right by the Jesus Saves shelter. The backpack could implicate Angie and all the other homeless men and women at Jesus Saves who clung to the shelter as their one sure place of safety and sanity.
Cruz surveyed the park, pondering the situation. Dry Creek ran down one side, wide spans of thick green grass and trees, and across the street stood a quiet line of elegant houses built in the 1920's when Rosedale, initially a railroad town, had flourished.
Who’d kill a harmless, homeless parolee?
Unfortunately, the homeless population had taken up residence in the park recently, causing incessant complaints from the neighborhood residents. The city council had passed several ordinances which reduced the number of street people hanging out where moms and dads watched their kids' t-ball games and retirees liked to stroll leisurely at dusk.
Why had they dumped the backpack so far away?
Still, it was nearly impossible to keep the homeless from pitching their sleeping bags in secluded park areas. Patrol officers spent most of their time rousting them. A thankless job because the homeless always came back a few hours later, or the next day or night.