The Cruelest Cut (20 page)

They were gathered again in the makeshift war room at Two-Jakes. Present were Jack, Liddell, Mark Crowley, and Angela Garcia, and Captain Franklin had decided to risk the wrath of Double Dick to attend the meeting as well after receiving the call from Jack.

“So it's Eddie Solazzo?” Captain Franklin asked.

“Who's this ‘Eddie' guy?” Mark Crowley asked. He and Garcia had been halfway to Dubois County when they received the message from Jack and turned around to come back to meet.

“Eddie Solazzo is a psycho who likes to hurt people,” Liddell said, scowling, but his face lit up when he saw Vinnie carrying in a tray of donuts and a carafe of coffee.

“Me and Jack arrested Eddie and his brother, Bobby, several times for robberies. They enjoyed inflicting pain more than stealing money. They both have records going back to their preteens. The father was a local preacher who died in a fire when they were teens.” Liddell stopped to chomp a pastry.

“In any case,” Liddell said, “when their father died, Bobby was old enough to take custody of Eddie, and they just seemed to go wild. Both were pretty much raised by the state through Boys School, and later in the state prison. When Jack killed Bobby, Eddie was doing time in Westville Corrections for armed robbery.”

Garcia sneaked a peek at Jack, looking at the thick white scar that ran down his neck. She remembered hearing about the incident with Bobby Solazzo and how Jack had almost died, but she'd never heard the whole story.

Liddell was watching Jack, too. He guessed the thoughts going through his partner's mind, and knew this was Jack's least favorite subject. But the team had to know why Eddie Solazzo was a good fit for the killer. Why Eddie would want to punish Jack. He took in a deep breath and began.

“A couple of months ago, Jack and I got a lead on some guys that had been sticking up jewelry stores all over the state. Turned out to be Bobby Solazzo.”

Jack stood up. “I'm going for a walk,” he said, and left the room.

Garcia waited until the door shut behind Jack then asked in a hushed tone, “Is that where he got the scar?”

Liddell nodded, and then continued. “Bobby wasn't real careful picking someone to replace Eddie, and the ex-con he used had a problem with spousal abuse. She came to us, spilled the beans about the robbery they were planning, and we set up a stakeout.

“Anyway,” Liddell said, “Bobby Solazzo shows up with some ex-cons and they blow the door lock off the back of Turley's Jewelry Store with a pump shotgun and rush inside.”

Vinnie brought more coffee and pulled up a chair to hear the rest of the tale. He'd heard it a dozen times, but it never got old. Liddell stopped talking and looked at him dubiously. Vinnie grinned sheepishly and spread his hands. “What? I can't listen to this? It's some big dark police secret or something?”

Liddell refilled his coffee cup and continued. “Okay, so things went to shit after that. Stuff I won't go into right now, but believe me there was a lot of commotion. Bobby took advantage of the confusion and came out the back door blasting away with a pump shotgun and ran down the alley. One robber was killed by our snipers in the alley, but two of these assholes got stuck inside the store and took hostages. Jack was the only one that wasn't ducking for cover, so he chased Solazzo. Solazzo surprised Jack and nearly cut him in half with a knife. Jack killed him. End of story.”

Crowley said, “Yeah, Eddie sounds like a good fit for the killer, but does he use a knife like his brother?”

Liddell had to admit that was puzzling. Eddie generally preferred using a shotgun or a large-caliber pistol. “But if he is getting even for his brother, he might be using a knife to make his point.”

Franklin didn't look convinced. “If it's Eddie, we should have his prints on file.”

“But Eddie Solazzo is not on the fingerprint list that Walker gave me. And the DNA didn't match anyone,” Garcia said, expressing what they were all thinking. “If Eddie Solazzo is our guy, and he just got out of prison recently, then his DNA has to be in the system. Right?”

Tony Walker spoke up. He had been checking the list of possible hits from their DNA request. “She's right. Eddie's not on here,” he said.

“How is that possible?” Franklin asked. “I mean, Eddie's been down several times on violent felonies. He has to be in the system.”

“Not necessarily,” Walker said. “CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System that the FBI maintains, has about seven million offender profiles, but the NDIS, the National DNA Index System, is done state by state. And the fingerprint that the state police got from the gum wrapper was in horrible shape.”

He saw everyone looking at him, and he shrugged, “Okay, so I'm a geek. But my point is that Indiana only has about one hundred thirty thousand entries into the database, and depending on the data-sharing between the state and federal computers, it's possible that some of the criminals are not in the system yet.” Now he could see they were all interested.

“Check with the state lab and see if they submitted Eddie's DNA,” Franklin said to Walker.

“I'll check with the Indiana Department of Corrections,” Susan said.

“I'll have another donut,” Liddell said, motioning for Crowley to pass the tray back in his direction.

“Susan, can you get a pickup order started on Eddie?” Jack asked.

“I did it this morning. He should be in the warrant computer by now,” she answered. “But you know how that works. He can only be held on the warrant long enough to go in front of a judge to determine if he will be sent back to prison for parole violation.”

Liddell finished her thought. “And the prisons are full, so the judges really don't bother too much with parolees unless they've committed a new crime, and yada, yada, yada.”

“But at least we can get him off the street for a while,” Jack said. He'd slipped back in the room quietly. “In the meantime we start working angles for probable cause for an arrest warrant,” Jack said, then to Franklin he said, “Captain, can you—?”

“I'll get a BOLO out for Eddie,” Franklin said, picking up his cell phone.

“You haven't told us what you found yet,” Crowley said to Liddell.

Liddell tried to talk around the powdered-sugar donut he had stuffed into his mouth, gave up, and then held up a finger while he swallowed loudly.

“Real classy partner you got there, Jack,” Crowley said with a grin.

“You ought to see him at a buffet,” Jack responded, and Garcia made a face at the thought.

“Hey,” Liddell protested, powdered sugar stuck to his face and lips. “If you screwups aren't interested, I'll peddle my information elsewheres.”

“Go ahead,” Garcia said. “But please, stop eating.”

Liddell looked around for a napkin, and not finding one handy, wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Okay, here's what I got.”

 

Liddell's information had come from one of his informants, named Coin. The ones that knew Coin were skeptical of any information that he would come up with, because he had a reputation of manufacturing what he thought you wanted to hear. An anything-for-a-buck mentality.

Coin told Liddell that he had heard one of the Indian motel owners was “roughed up” a day or so ago. Because his booze-soaked mind worked on quantum time, a “day or so” to Coin might be two hours, or two weeks. It was all relative when Mad Dog 20/20 or Wild Irish Rose had its claws into Coin's mind, causing time to fold in on itself.

But in any case, it was another lead, and it would take at least an hour or so for Walker and Susan to run down the information on Eddie's DNA testing.

Liddell put together a photo lineup containing Eddie's parole photo, and he and Jack decided to run down the Indian motels lead. The thing was, these people were not very cooperative with police, viewing them through their own cultural experience. Police were something to be feared, avoided. But if anyone looked like they had been roughed up, they could at least show the lineup and see if they got a reaction. Besides, they might get lucky and run across Eddie. The strip of cheap motels on Fares Avenue was just the type of place someone could disappear.

Since he was still suspended from duty, Jack drove separately. If he had to, he could disappear quickly and not get Liddell in hot water with Double Dick. They struck out at the Royal and Schmidt motels, and were beginning to feel like they were on a wild-goose chase.

“Let's try the Arrowhead, and then we'll get back to the others,” Jack said. “Maybe Walker will have some information by now.”

Jack followed Liddell to the Arrowhead Motel and let Liddell park in the front drive while he took a parking spot around the side. Inside, they were met by a dark-skinned older gentleman who said his name was Haroon. His accent was very thick to the point of being indistinguishable. But when he realized they were there about the “bad man,” as Haroon called him, his accent went away entirely, and his English became perfect.

“Sorry about that,” Mr. Haroon said, and pulled a hard-bound ledger from under the counter. He flipped through a few pages and then pulled out another ledger and flipped it open. “He checked in on Tuesday, last week, checked out on Wednesday afternoon.”

“That would fit Kids' Kingdom,” Liddell said to Jack.

“He didn't pay, and he didn't check out,” Haroon said, waving his arms theatrically. “He just beat up my aunt. And then he left.”

“What room?” Jack asked.

“Room Thirty-seven,” Haroon said, sadly shaking his head. “All the way in the back. He's a bad man. A very bad man.”

Jack and Liddell took the room key from Haroon, and as they left the office, Haroon followed them. “If you're going to ask why I didn't report the attack, it's because my uncle doesn't want any police involvement, and my aunt wasn't hurt too badly. She understands how things work here.”

They stopped outside the door of Room 37. The window next to the doorway was missing, and the curtains were flapping through the opening, held in place by the jagged edges of glass. Haroon stepped back when the two detectives unholstered their weapons and held them low. “Hey!” he said, and Liddell shushed him.

Jack didn't expect anyone to be in the room, but with these ten-dollar-a-night joints, you could easily walk in on a crack deal or a junkie with a gun. Jack eased the door into the room and quickly moved in to the left, his pistol at the ready. Liddell moved inside to the right, and they swept the room in an arc with the muzzles of their weapons until they were sure there was no threat to them. The interior consisted of two rooms, if you could consider a five-foot-by-five-foot bathroom another room. Both men reholstered their weapons and walked back outside, where an anxious Haroon waited.

“Have you had anyone in to clean up this place, yet?” Jack asked, but he was pretty sure nothing had been touched. The couch looked like it had been through a tree shredder. The bed was merely a mattress lying on the floor without any pillow or covers. Next to the mattress a broken lamp sat on a heavily scarred table. The mirror over the bathroom sink had been smashed, and shards of glass hung from the frame like hillbilly teeth. In other words, it was a typical rundown motel that the cops teasingly called a “no-tell motel” because if the cops showed up, you didn't ask, and you didn't tell.

The outside of the stucco building had been painted that shade of pink that you see in third-world countries, and the inside room paint was the color you would associate with Legionnaire's disease and bouts of delirium tremens. The only things interesting about the room were the walls. Each wall had several long gashes that could have been made with a machete or some other heavy-bladed instrument. There were also numerous fist-sized holes in the drywall, but all of this could have been made by tenants previous to Eddie's visit. In most instances the amount of damage in this room would be considered evidence of a struggle and possible murder, but in this type of setting it was called “ambiance.”

From the doorway Jack noticed something lying under the edge of the couch. He walked back into the room and leaned down.

“You got some gloves?” he asked Liddell. Liddell handed him a pair of gloves and a plastic evidence envelope. Jack pulled on the gloves and reached under the couch, coming out with a red crayon. He dropped it in the evidence bag and lifted the edge of the couch a few inches. “Shit,” Jack said softly and looked up at Liddell.

Liddell leaned down and saw what Jack had found. A Black Jack chewing gum wrapper.

“I'm sure glad I spotted the crayon and the gum wrapper,” Liddell said, and that's the way it would go in the report, because Jack wasn't supposed to be there. He took the crayon from Jack. “I'll leave the gum wrapper for crime scene to collect.” They went back outside.

“Do you keep crayons in the office?” Jack asked Haroon.

“We keep some in the office,” Haroon answered. “For the kids, you know?”

“Where do you get them?” Liddell asked, and Haroon's face colored slightly.

“Look,” Liddell said, “I don't care if you steal them from homeless shelters. I just want a straight answer, okay?”

Haroon cleared his throat and looked down. “There is a restaurant near one of our motels where we get them.”

“The name?” Liddell demanded.

“It has painted wooden horses,” Haroon said. “But I don't remember the name. Honest!”

“I know where it is,” Jack said to Liddell, and then to Haroon, he said, “We need to talk to your aunt.” Haroon nodded agreement, and led them back through the office to a narrow doorway that was covered by a sheet. On the other side was a room small enough to be a broom closet. The aunt was lying on a camper-type cot with a thin blanket, wearing only a pullover jumper, and bandages covered most of her face. She was of indeterminate age, and was thin, anemic looking. Black rings circled the one eye that wasn't covered with bandages, and her gaze was that of a frightened animal.

“You can talk to them,” Haroon assured her in his perfect English.

She let out a small moan as she tried to lift herself up on one elbow. “Is this about the bad man?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Yes,” Liddell said. “Tell us about the bad man.”

 

The woman's name was Akira Patel. She was actually fifty years old, from Bangladesh, and spoke excellent English. They learned during the conversation that Akira meant “graceful strength” and that she was a hard worker. She wanted nothing to do with the police. She had come to America a year ago to work for the family business. Her reticence about the police was a natural tendency of a woman from a country with a caste system. Although she was hesitant at first, she warmed to the detectives and told them quite a lot. At least until they asked if she would look at a photo lineup.

When they were outside alone Jack said to Liddell, “It was like pulling the plug on a toaster, wasn't it?”

“The minute you asked her to look at photos she forgot how to speak English,” Liddell agreed. “But can you blame her? I mean, look what he did to her!”

“Yeah, you're right,” Jack agreed. “The description she gave us is Eddie, but without a positive identification we can't charge him with anything. Besides, she won't press charges. Hopefully the crime scene guys will find something in that room to verify that it was Eddie. At least then, we can place him in Evansville during the time of the Kids' Kingdom murder.”

“So what now?” Liddell asked.

“You go call forensics and tear that room apart,” Jack said. “I'm not supposed to be here, and I don't want to put the crime scene guys on the spot by making them lie in their reports.”

 

The search of Room 37 took the rest of the evening. The room was surprisingly clean of any fingerprints or forensic evidence of any type, and the fingerprints they did find were smudged or so light that Liddell was told not to hold his breath. They did find some metal pieces in the large gouges in the walls, and the forensic team seemed pretty excited by that discovery. They wouldn't promise anything, but they told Liddell to check back in the morning. If they ever found the weapon, they might be able to match it to the metal fragments, and to the wounds on the bodies. It was something, at least.

Liddell turned over the red crayon after describing in detail where “he” found it under the bed, and asked for it to be compared with the crayon on the killer's notes. He hoped they would be able to do at least a preliminary comparison without sending it out to the state police lab. After that, Liddell packed it in and headed home. Unless something else came up, there was nothing more to do. Except call Jack and fill him in, of course.

 

Jack answered on the first ring. “Tell me you found something,” he said, and when Liddell didn't respond right away he said, “Damn!”

“Jack, they're taking everything back to headquarters, and Franklin has them working all night on what they have.” He then told Jack about the metal fragments that were found in the walls of the room, and the bad news, that the room was almost devoid of any usable fingerprints.

“How can someone be so damn lucky?” Jack complained. “Did you try the Indian woman again?”

“Yeah,” Liddell said. “Nothing. She's scared shitless.”

Jack was disappointed, but he knew that couldn't force Akira to identify her attacker. Haroon claimed he wasn't able to determine which of their employees had checked the occupant in to Room 37, and the management had closed ranks in silence. Making an arrest for the battery on Akira was not going to happen. Any charge would get thrown out of court, even if they somehow obtained enough probable cause to get a warrant. They would just have to work with the parole violation charge they currently had.

“There's more bad news,” Liddell said. “Walker called and said they can't find Eddie's DNA in the system.”

“How can that be?” Jack asked. “How do you lose DNA?”

“That's what I asked. He said that there was some kind of problem with the state's computer servers a couple of years ago, and the company they had working on them may have accidentally erased some of the data.”

“And they don't back up the servers?” Jack said.

“Walker is still checking. He told them this is a multiple murder case, but the state employee he was talking to didn't seem impressed. Anyway, I called Susan, and she said that she's trying to find out if there's anything that the state parole office may have that can be used for a DNA comparison.”

“Well, we still have the DNA from Patoka Lake, so all we have to do is catch Eddie and get some blood from him,” Jack said.

Liddell was quiet for a long time.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“Are you sitting down, pod'na?” Liddell said.

Jack felt a headache coming on. “I was before you called,” he said.

“Well, when Walker called he gave me some other news,” Liddell said, his voice taking on a chilling note. “He said the DNA in the Patoka case is a match with the urine samples we found on your clothes.”

Jack felt his stomach roll. His vision blurred, and pain shot up his spine. His palms became sweaty, and he thought he might throw up. He was startled to realize that Liddell had been talking to him, and was saying, “Jack, did you hear me?”

Jack cleared his throat and said, “Yes. I heard. It has to be Eddie.” His voice was stiff, the words forced. He thought,
This must be what victims of rape and assault feel like after…

He had talked to hundreds of victims during his career, but had never really known what they were going through. It was like the most private part of his life was torn from him and cruelly abused. Since the incident behind his cabin, he'd been nervous when he left or arrived home. He had trouble sleeping. His personal safety had been violated, and he'd lost control of his ability to defend himself. For an ordinary citizen that was frightening, but for a policeman, that loss was devastating because it threatened everything he stood for. How could he protect the public when he couldn't even protect himself?

Jack carried the phone out to the porch, took a Guinness from the cooler he kept stocked by his chair, and sat down. Liddell heard a pop and knew what the sound was immediately. He worried about Jack. He was alone too much, too dedicated to his work sometimes, and too prone to drink when it all became too much.

“It's a good thing you left when you did,” Liddell said, to change the subject. “When I called for forensics, they called the chief.”

“Really?” Jack said, genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, the crime scene commander has been ordered to call him personally any time I call forensics, or any other assistance,” Liddell said. “Guess the chief doesn't trust me.”

“Or me,” Jack said, and Liddell was glad to hear him chuckle slightly.

“Or maybe he's got wind of our little group, the Holy Jihad team?”

Jack doubted that Dick knew about the team. If he did, he would have Jack up on serious charges and in front of the Merit Commission by now. But he didn't doubt that they would have to be extremely careful. Snitches didn't just work for detectives.

The men agreed to talk again early in the morning. He wondered what the hell he hoped to accomplish by working against the chief's orders. He didn't want to compromise Liddell, and so he couldn't even stay while Crime Scene searched the room. How was he supposed to get anywhere when he had to work blindfolded and hog-tied?

His neck and head throbbed. He went into the bathroom and carried a couple of aspirin back onto the porch and downed them with a Guinness. He didn't know that the morning would hold a surprise for everyone.