April 14, 2008
Inside the living room of a modest, tidy home, William Dawson reclined in his easy chair, channel surfing in search of a sporting event. It was the off-season for the NFL, so lately he’d been getting into women’s tennis—something the missus enjoyed watching as well, for slightly different reasons. No decent match was on, so the seventy-nine-year-old landed on Fox News. He watched a brief clip of Michelle Obama stumping for her husband.
“Snowball’s chance in hell,” he muttered.
A ringing sound cut through the air. Mrs. Dawson stopped her crocheting, rose from the sofa, and answered the phone mounted on the kitchen wall.
“Good morning. Dawson residence.”
He looked at his watch; it was only ten in the morning. No one called at that hour unless it was bad news—or a scammer preying on seniors.
“Bill, it’s for you.”
He grudgingly got out of his chair and took the phone from his wife.
“Hello?” he said gruffly.
“Detective Dawson?”
“That’s me, but I retired five years ago. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to you about an unsolved file you were the lead investigator on: the Caretaker Killer case.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s James Crowe,” Kestrel fibbed. “I’m a private investigator working for the Southwest Indigenous Justice Network. If you recall, the six victims in that case were all Native American.”
“The suspect too.”
“That’s right. I’ve been hired to dig into that case and similar files, on behalf of the families.”
His investigative muscle memory kicked in; he reached for a pen and a notepad, also mounted on the wall.
“You mind if I run a background check on you first? I’m not really in the habit of talking to PIs about official business. I know you call yourselves detectives, but until I see a gold shield hanging around your neck, you’re just a snoop to me. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Okay, then. Give me your particulars: name of the agency or organization you work for, your license number.”
After rattling all that off, Kestrel added two more numbers for him to contact.
Seated in a little nook he used as his home office, he did a Google search for SIJN and James Crowe; nothing really stood out. Then he called an old buddy still on the job with Major Crimes to run a background check. Crowe was legit. Lastly—but hesitantly—he called one of the numbers. It was the personal line of his old boss’s boss, a token hire he wasn’t exactly fond of.
***
April 15, 2008
When Kestrel showed up at the retired detective’s home, the ex-detective was outside trimming his hedges on a picturesque lane situated only an hour’s drive from the dystopian streets he’d spent his life serving and protecting. A Republican neighborhood, with lots of flags on display, it was the kind of setting Norman Rockwell would have painted.
After sticking his “I can park wherever the hell I please” placard on the dashboard of the Toyota rental SUV—compliments of the mayor—he exited with a thick accordion file folder tucked under his arm. The older man observed his approach with suspicion, regardless of their phone conversation the day before.
“Mr. Dawson?”
“Crowe, right? You’re the private investigator?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re Indian. I thought you were white.”
“Well, I guess I sound like that on the phone. You might say I’m assimilated.”
“What are you? Comanche?”
“Navajo,” he lied.
“Albuquerque. Beautiful country out there. How was the drive?”
“Uneventful, except for the price of gas. Jesus, three-fifty a gallon—friggin’ highway robbery.”
“Sorry. Old habit. But you mind if I see your license?”
He took his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out the phony PI license that had been fabricated for him. The retired detective eyeballed it for a second, then handed it back.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Alright. Why don’t we go inside? You hungry? I know I am.”
***
He sat in the dining room across from the older man, sipping iced tea. Laid out on the table were the contents of the battered expanding file folder: photographs—grainy black-and-white crime scene shots, typed reports with their carbon copies, and tattered chain-of-custody logs. Next to an autopsy report from a long-retired coroner lay an old Polaroid of the prime suspect: the caretaker of the Imperial Hotel.
The retired detective’s wife stepped out of the kitchen, carrying two plates with sandwiches. A gracious, white-haired woman, she slid one in front of Kestrel—the other she placed before her husband.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thanks, Pearl… any bacon?”
“Two slices, and that’s it for this week… savor it.”
“You know I will.”
“I don’t know how you two can eat looking at that stuff.”
“Just makes me hungrier,” the retired detective replied, taking a big bite of the sandwich.
“Well, excuse me if I don’t join you.”
She left, and her husband munched away.
“The mind plays funny tricks when you’re older. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday…”
“Poached eggs and whole wheat toast,” said his wife from the other room.
“I know that, Mother! I was speaking metaphorically.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, this case—I remember it like it was yesterday.” He picked up the faded Polaroid and gazed at the image of a broad-faced man with sculpted cheekbones, hollow eyes staring back. “The moment I laid eyes on Strongblood, I knew. Should’ve slapped cuffs on him right there. But stupid me—I went by the book.”
“What led you to him in the first place?”
“Just old-fashioned police work. The girls on the street were scared, so they were eager to talk. We interviewed a bunch, and his name kept popping up.”
“You haven’t read the files—it’s all in the reports.”
“I have. Just want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, if you will. See if there’s anything else I can glean.”
“Gotcha. Well, they didn’t say anything that outright incriminated him. Just a general impression.”
“Such as?”
“Being a little off. Having a taste for the kinky stuff—leather, bondage. And mostly, living alone in the Imperial. That’s only a few blocks’ walk from where most of the girls worked. I hear it’s been cleaned up, but back in my day, it was a meat market.”
“Certain parts, yeah. That area’s pretty much the same.”
“In my opinion, they should make the whole damn thing legal. Turn it into a red-light district like in Amsterdam.”
“I wouldn’t disagree. I spent time in the Netherlands—civilized country, civilized people.”
“Yeah, not like here. This country’s going to hell in a handbasket—a handbasket made in China.”
He got up from the table, leaning toward the living room so his wife could see him.
“Good sandwich, Mother.”
The retired detective sat back down.
“Okay, where were we?”
“So you had your suspicions about Strongblood based on some of the working girls’ statements.”
“That’s right. Matt and I dropped in on him for a—you know—friendly chat. But he wouldn’t have it. Ergo… we came back with a warrant. When we arrived…”
“He was gone.”
“Right.”
“And when you searched his residence, you found no evidence of foul play whatsoever. Not even S&M paraphernalia.” He flipped open a file note, reading the yellowed affidavit aloud: 1985 warrant cited ‘exigent community safety,’ denied by Judge Harlan.
“Right again. But we might have, if we could’ve searched the whole hotel. There were literally hundreds of places to hide things in that old building—including, from what I was told, a private garden.”
“So what stopped you?”
“The people responsible for the preservation of the building—they lawyered up immediately. Our hands were tied. We had to limit the search to the caretaker’s suite, the manager’s office, and the maintenance room. The rest was out of bounds.”
“Still, even though you found nada—no evidentiary material, nothing to connect Strongblood to the murders—you believe he did it?”
“Goddamn right. I’d bet my pension on it.”
“Why? What makes you so sure?”
“Because the minute he split town, the killings stopped. Well, that kind, at least.”
“If you were that certain, why didn’t you pursue it? From my perspective, it looks like steps could’ve been taken to push the investigation further.”
“Today, maybe. But this was ’85—a lot different back then. We weren’t even plugged into ViCAP yet—let alone into info-sharing between agencies. Once someone fled your jurisdiction, you didn’t chase. No manpower, no resources. God knows I would’ve loved to. And to be frank, back then, no one gave a rat’s ass about a few chopped-up hookers—especially if they were Indians.”
“Well, in that regard, not much has changed.”
His disgust with the process didn’t affect his appetite; he bit hungrily into the sandwich. Speaking with a mouthful of food:
“When I learned Strongblood was a veteran…”
“He was a vet?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not anywhere in the reports.”
“Well, at the time, I didn’t know. Learned about it only a few years ago.”
“Care to be specific?”
“Mother, my memory’s failing me again. How many years ago was it when Matt died?”
“It’s been ten years—come the eleventh of this May,” he heard her say from the living room.
“She’s as sharp as a tack,” he said, grinning, before standing up. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ve got something to show you.”
The older man shuffled down the hall. Kestrel took a few bites of his sandwich—the BLT was dry but serviceable. When the retired detective returned, he held a small, shiny object.
“My partner, Matt Kincaid, was a good cop—last of a dying breed. Taught me everything I knew. I practically worshiped the ground he walked on. But like everyone, he had his faults. Turns out, he was a bit of a klepto.”
“Klepto?”
“Yup. On his last days, before he passed, he confessed he’d been pocketing stuff from scenes for years.”
“Jesus.”
“Nothing big, mind you. Nothing worth a dime—he wasn’t lining his pockets. Just… souvenirs.”
“Souvenirs.”
“Yup. And this? He lifted it from Strongblood’s apartment.”
The retired detective handed him a Zippo lighter, its brass warm from his palm.
“From that, I figured he must’ve served. Hence, I called the Army. Sure enough, I was right. But here’s the clincher: When I asked for his records, they stonewalled me. ‘Classified. Top secret.’ All that national security bullshit.”
“Hmm. Now that’s interesting.”
“Sure as shit is. My guess? Strongblood was one of those special ops guys—trained to carve people up like turkeys. A psycho. And the Army? They were just covering their asses, like always.”
He held up the Zippo, turning it in his palm.
“Can I borrow this? It might offer up a few clues.”
“Have it,” he sighed. “If it can lead to some answers or closure for those girls’ families, good.”
“To be honest, sir, I don’t think my investigation is going to go that far. We’re not reopening any cases; I’m just putting together a dossier for the families to bring to the feds. If there’s any justice, it’ll be more in the way of federal resources, more handouts—you know how these things work.”
“Understood. Well, you have my sympathies, regardless, and good luck. But no way in heck am I going to taint Matt’s legacy. If anyone asks you where you got that Zippo, you didn’t get it from me.”
beta version of the chapter. I’d really appreciate any feedback you have — what you liked, what didn’t quite work, any typos you spotted, or thoughts on the pacing and characters. Every comment helps me improve the story.
Vote and drop your theories in the replies!
(What do you think the Zippo will reveal — military ID, hidden engraving, DNA, or a total red herring?)
After Kestrel’s conversation with retired Detective Dawson, what’s your verdict on Strongblood?
