Prologue: Ryan's Day
November 13, 1987:
Jewels of light below Camino Cielo were coming alive
and sparkling in that hour before dusk slips into the black sheath of night. Sunset's clicking and buzzing nocturnal solace was interrupted by the rattling angry buzz approach of dirt
bikes a couple of hairpins from the Painted Cave junction. Three kids on
dirt bikes came upon the taxicab waiting at a turnout; its motor running; drivers
side rear door open. Its headlights lit up an old pine that stood tall over a
turn-out near the junction of Painted Cave Road and Camino Cielo. The driver of
the taxi was behind the wheel. He wasn’t waiting for a fare. He wasn’t waiting
for anything at all.
“Hey, look… the driver’s sleeping. You think
he’ll wake-up if we…”
One of the kids opened the driver’s door. He shut off the ignition noticing a wad of cash bulging out of the driver’s shirt pocket, he shouted, “He’s not
sleeping, Jason.”
*****
The hour was magic between the dark of night and
before the first light from Ryan’s low-rent studio apartment on the second
floor on Foothill Road. The coffee machine began its morning drip, pop, fizzle grumble
set for five AM. He’d been at the scene of the taxi cab past midnight. These
calls rarely happen at one’s convenience. Still dark outside, he made the single
bed, went to his kitchenette, and poured a mug of coffee. Black, and filled to
the brim, he took the mug to his desk in the corner under the window that, from
the second floor facing Southwest, allowed dawn to decorate his view on one
side. It wasn’t so dreary for him. When the divorce papers were signed, he’d
reflected philosophically, “We hardly knew each other anyway.” After all, they
were no kids. His passion was in his work and his only vice had once been Cuban
cigars. It hurt him worse than the divorce when the cardiologist insisted he
quit smoking. The desk was the only piece of furniture besides a dresser and
the bed. He raised his cup to the picture that was still on his desk, “To you,
Imelda, the hair of the dog.”
Narcotic/Vice Detective, Ryan, opened a folder
that contained several polaroids he’d snapped the night before and played back the
interview of the kids on a micro cassette. The photos were of the taxi cab and close-ups
of the driver, head slumped over the wheel. They were of Douglas Perry… his
most reliable Confidential Informant. He pinned the pictures to the corkboard
above the desk. There were others too. The untrained eye might think some were
accidents… camera went off… shots of the ground. But closer scrutiny showed
they were of dirt bike tracks, foot impressions in the gravel, and car tire
tracks.
The tinny voices of all three kids from the recorder told the same story of
riding up on dirt bikes when they found the cab parked in a turnout on Camino
Cielo. None said
anything about the wad of cash in the driver’s pocket and none was found
anywhere else on the body or in the cab. Ryan suspected it was probably robbery
and nothing about it looked like suicide. He only had to drive up San Marcos
Pass to Camino Cielo from his place again after he finished his second cup of
coffee… about ten minutes. The body was still pliable by the time Ryan saw it
taken away in the meat wagon before midnight. He’d been around corpses long
enough to know it takes two or three hours for rigor mortis to set in.
He ripped the dry-cleaners’ wrapper off one of
four dark blue sports jackets, chose from a selection of identical light blue shirts,
and a clip-on striped, grey, blue and white tie. He pulled up his chino slacks
over stout, muscled, legs that spoke of years of roadwork training for the
ring. He stretched his belt to the last notch over a paunch from lack of
exercise. His exercise was restricted to light cardio workouts on the treadmill…
doctor’s orders to go light. He drove back up to the crime scene at sunrise in
his blue 1970 Chevy Caprice. Turning right off San Marcos, a squad car passed
him going the other way off Camino Cielo. Two City Police cars were parked
behind a flatbed tow truck so he parked on the other side of the road. The
driver at the winch was loading the taxi while the rookie, Rogers, clipboard in
hand, acted the supervisor of the whole operation while three other uniforms
stood back and watched.
“Who ordered it towed?” Ryan barked.
“Take it easy, Ryan. What’s the big deal? It’s
been here where you left it last night.”
Ryan’s eyes scoured the dirt within the yellow
crime scene tape. A set of tire tracks
were scuffed up in the dirt in front of the cab and two different shoe sizes were
in the gravel next to where the rear door had been. He had snaps of the tire
tracks but hadn’t noticed footprints the night before or he would have snapped
some pics. Frustrated he asked, “What’s the use of this tape if you’re letting
a herd of buffalo traipse through it?”
“Come on Ryan you know it was self-inflicted.”
“No prints anywhere on the car?”
“Clean.”
Ryan nodded towards the tire tracks, “Homicide’s
been here? I don’t suppose plaster casts were taken of these before you stepped
all over them?”
“Yep to one and Nope to two.” Rogers’s made no
attempt to cover his annoyance at being questioned by this old fart.
Ryan drew out a tape measure next to the foot
prints and snapped a few more shots from the cheap Polaroid One-Step 600 he
carried with him to every crime scene. He could see that there was little use
in hanging around much longer. The new Coroner’s Office had moved down the hill
next to the County Sheriff less than a mile from his place. He needed to run
things by someone whose judgment could be trusted. “Let’s see what the coroner
has by now. Ride with me Rogers, you might learn a thing or two.”
Almost at the junction of San Marcos Road, they
had to pull over to the side to let three lit up, lights flashing County
Sheriff cars speed towards the scene. Rogers said, “Right-on. We’re off the
case.”
*****
