Was one of his parolees responsible for Dickey’s death?
Police couldn't really keep the homeless from hanging out in the park, so they nailed them for littering or loitering. Misdemeanors at best, one the offenders didn't mind. For the older ones, a few hours or a night off the street in a warm cell was a good deal, especially during the winter rains.
Cruz made up his mind.
Andy Flood’s rigid back faced him. As a law enforcement officer, Cruz should inform the detective about the discovery of the backpack, but Flood’s sense of self-importance rankled him. He tapped Flood on the shoulder. “Who discovered the body?”
Flood turned around, irritated, rolled his neck. Cruz heard a pop. “Some old guy out walking his dog called in around seven.”
Cruz glanced in the direction Flood pointed. The frail-looking elderly gentleman, still armed with his pooper-scooper and baggie, held a noisy terrier next to his chest, both shivering like leaves on a windy day. They looked scared and shaken, and Cruz felt a momentary pang for the odd duo.
On reflection, he doubted the police would find any ID in the backpack. Homeless people often didn't carry identification with them. Most couldn’t afford a driver's license or county ID card.
Cruz called Angie back. “Dial 911,” he murmured. “Tell them someone found blood in the dumpster. Keep everyone out of the bathroom, and for heaven’s sake don’t touch the item. I’m on my way.”
Chapter 13
It was hard to stick to his job with the murder trending everywhere.
Brutal Park Murder.
Motive Unknown.
Police Baffled.
Mid-morning newscasts and sound bites screamed the latest gory gossip.
The words were raw lesions on his skin, burning and blistering. They were painting the dead as poor and pathetic, and the death as some grotesque murder.
He snapped his cell phone shut in disgust.
No one cared about the homeless population in Bigler County, not in Sacramento County either, although they put on a good show at American River Food Bank.
The reality was vagrants were damn bloodsuckers, living off the government teat. Taking hard-working people’s hard-earned money. They could get jobs, live better lives if they wanted, but they’d rather live off the sweat of someone else’s labors.
Lazy good-for-nothings, like his father had always claimed.
The whole situation disgusted him.
He felt rage at the injustice of the system rise again in his gorge and remembered ...
The quiet, deserted park. The man leaning against the tree without a care in the world. His approach and the raw exchange of words.
Then the accident. It was an accident, he told himself. No planning. No premeditation. No intent. The phrases of TV crime shows lolled lazily inside his brain like drifting clouds.
An accident, he argued to himself. Not murder!
Still, the death of the homeless man had shaken him up. Not that the world was experiencing any great loss with him gone. But a kind of shame raced along his nerves in tandem with the same fire that burned there, the same unacknowledged thrill. He compartmentalized the emotions, but they lingered, two giants battling for dominance.
He was ashamed, yes! He’d taken a man’s life, but still ... the secret tinge of excitement remained. Even now, he felt himself remembering, dwelling on the feeling of emotional power. It was a seductive aphrodisiac.
After the clean up at Ryder Park, he had walked hurriedly back to his car, glancing around to be sure he wasn’t seen. He’d stowed the backpack and his tools in the car’s trunk on an old blanket.
Ditch the backpack, but where? None of this could lead back to him.
Before he drove to his grubby apartment in Old Rosedale – the only thing he could afford since his wife divorced him – he’d decided what to do.
In the kitchen at home he made a good strong cup of coffee, added a bit of brandy, and sipped it slowly at the counter. It was almost morning, and by then he’d stopped shaking and only a slight tremor remained in his hand.
Glancing at the clock, he thought about work, considered calling in sick. He quickly discarded the idea. Business as usual was the best way to proceed, but he didn’t like leaving the tools and blood-stained blanket in the trunk of his car.
He hadn’t tossed those items in the dumpster with the backpack. Too risky. The tools would be safe for the day in his car, he finally concluded. Then he’d determine what to do with them – dump them in the lake or a bleach soak to remove stains and DNA.
Would the tools be ruined? He thought he might enjoy using them ... again ... for other purposes, of course.