Prologue of Anadel

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.”

*****