The Poisonous Ten (27 page)

33

“What do we have?” Parks asked, sneaking up behind Fairmont and Hayward, who were watching Doug Tisdale’s place from across the street. Four black-and-whites awaited command a block away so as to not be seen. Parks intended to only question the man, but when Hardwick had been informed of their latest theory, she decided to take no chances. If Douglas Tisdale was the Palisades Poisoner and he felt the police were finally onto him, chances were he wouldn’t go down without a fight. She could spare the men at the moment and would rather they weren’t needed as opposed to allowing him to escape once again. Three cars were waiting north of the residence and another four were parked south, each waiting for a command of what to do.

“You do realize that there is a chance this guy isn’t our killer?” Fairmont asked, not taking his eyes off the target.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Parks replied. “Which is why we need to do this right. Hopefully we can just bring him in and question him. But something tells me we might not be so lucky. Is he there or not?”

“From what we can determine, he’s there. There’s movement from behind the curtains. But nothing specific.”

“He’s there,” Hayward replied. “I say we take this son of a bitch and do it now.”

Parks nodded. “All right. Fairmont you come with me. Hayward, you take two men and go around the back to make sure he doesn’t run. Everyone stay on your radios with open communication. Maybe this guy won’t put up a fight. Okay?”

They all nodded as they checked their guns then started across the street.

Parks knocked on the door to Doug and Allison Tisdale’s house on North Crescent Drive and waited for any sign of acknowledgement from within. He glanced around at the yard and noticed that it didn’t appear as if the gardeners had been by in a few weeks. Most likely not since Allison’s death. He wondered about this and knocked on the door again.

“Hayward? You guys in position?” Parks asked into the mic attached to his vest. “Hayward?”

“I saw movement,” Fairmont said, stepping over from Parks’s side and making his way toward the front window.

“Hayward, come in,” Parks said into the mic. “See anything? Hayward, you there?” Parks turned to Fairmont as he switched over to one of the officers in the back of the house. “Why isn’t he answering? Hayward—”

The lights in the house went out, and everyone froze.  

Fairmont tried looking through the front window to see if he could determine anything when two bullets shattered the glass, just missing his face by inches.

“Are you all right?” Parks asked.

“Parks, what was that?” Hayward asked through his walkie-talkie.

“Jake?” Parks shouted.

“I’m all right. Get him. Get him,” Fairmont shouted back.

“Shots fired. Shots fired,” Parks said into his mic. “I r
epeat, shots fired. We’ve got a four-seventeen with shots fired. Officers in need of backup.” Fairmont worked his way back over to Parks, gun drawn, as blood trickled down the side of his face from the wound on the top of his forehead. “Ready?”

Fairmont nodded and Parks kicked at the door. It didn’t budge, and he kicked again until it finally opened. Parks e
ntered the house, gun drawn, with Fairmont ready at his side. They worked their way into the interior, which was completely dark.

“Be alert,” Parks said.

There was a noise from above them and both men immediately turned toward the stairs before they noticed the two patrol men working their way from the back of the house.

“Where’s Hayward?” Parks asked.

“He ran in ahead of us,” one of the officers answered.

“Dammit. Spread—” Parks stopped as he saw Tisdale standing on the ledge, holding Hayward hostage with a s
yringe inserted into his neck. Whatever the contents of the needle were, they had yet to be injected into the detective.  “Just take it easy.” Parks took his gun off of Tisdale and aimed it toward the ceiling.

“I . . . uh . . . uh, back the fuck off,” Tisdale spat at the police as he looked wildly from one officer to the next, searching for a way out with his highly dilated pupils. He was sweating profusely and breathing rapidly, as if he was on something, and continued to lick his lips, his mouth dried out. “Back the . . . back . . . back off. Now!”

“All right.” Parks nodded. “All right. We can work our way through this. Nobody has to get hurt here.”

“I didn’t do it,” Tisdale continued while he eyed the front door. “You’re not—You hear me? Now back off! I’m ge
tting out of here and nobody’s stopping me.” Tisdale hugged Hayward tighter, his pulse picking up speed, as he looked around like a trapped animal. He worked his way down the stairs, one step at a time. Sweat rolled down Hayward’s face, and Parks could only imagine the fear pumping through the man’s body.

“Whatever you want,” Parks said as the officers began to back up.

“Into the kitchen,” Tisdale ordered, continuing down the stairs, nodding toward the back of the house. “Go on. All of you. Get into the kitchen. And none of you come out until I’m good and gone. You hear me? Or this one gets whatever’s in here. Go on. Back the fuck off! Now!” Tisdale’s words were slurred and barely made it out of his mouth, as if he couldn’t find the words to go with the thoughts in his brain. He kept smacking his mouth, in need a drink of water.

“Okay. Okay. Okay,” Parks said, making sure everyone
behind him continued on into the kitchen. He was almost out of sight of Tisdale and wasn’t sure he wanted that. The man was a killer. He had taken so many lives—what would stop him from taking one more on his way out?

“Back!” Tisdale shouted once more, forcing Parks to take another step into the kitchen. He bumped into Fairmont, as none of the men had moved deeper into the already darkened ro
om. Parks kept inching backward until he was far enough around the corner to be out of sight of Tisdale and Hayward.

They stood for what seemed like an eternity when Parks heard a car engine rev up. He ran out of the kitchen and saw Hayward lying on the ground, rubbing his head, having been hit over the head to stop him from chasing after Tisdale.

“Go,” Hayward yelled, waving Parks on.

A car flew out of the Tisdale’s garage, not bothering to wait for the door to open, as Doug Tisdale drove out in his wife’s BMW. He missed hitting the patrol car across the street by inches as he spun his car around in the middle of the street and gunned it north for Sunset.   

“Suspect on the run,” Parks announced into his mic as he and Fairmont ran for their car.

Parks jumped in the car and started it up just as Fairmont made it into the passenger seat. He turned on his cherry light and sirens as he sped up the street, barely catching sight of Hayward getting into his own vehicle in the rearview mirror.

Tisdale sped through the intersection at Sunset, not stopping for the red light, causing several cars to swerve and collide with neighboring cars. Parks sailed through the intersection, skirting the wreckage and both cars sped north on North Beverly Drive.

“Call it in,” Parks ordered Fairmont.

Fairmont picked up the mic and said, “Officers in pursuit of suspect heading north on North Beverly Drive toward Coldwater Canyon and Mulholland. Send backup,” Fairmont gripped the dashboard as Parks swerved around a car and sped up once again. “Careful. These streets are about to get dangerous. It’s windy up here.”

“I know,” Parks shot back, swerving again.

“Where the hell’s this guy going?”

Parks remained quiet, focusing on his objective, honking the car’s horn as he swerved in between two vehicles, finally catching up with Doug Tisdale’s BMW as it turned onto Mulholland Drive. Lights flashed and sirens wailed as Parks tried his best to keep up with Tisdale’s car, which began to swerve in the lane.

“What’s he doing?” Fairmont asked.

“I’m not sure,” Parks said.

Doug Tisdale’s car pulled to the right and ran up against the guardrail, sending a spray of sparks out over the edge of Mulholland. As the two cars sped along the road, all of Los Angeles could be seen far below the mountaintop, the lights of the city stretching away into darkness. Doug Tisdale pulled his car off of the guardrail but overcompensated and drove into the opposing lane. A car came right at the BMW, and Tisdale pulled the vehicle back into the right lane at the last second, swerving several more times.

“Coming up on a sharp bend,” Fairmont announced, keeping an eye on the road.

“I see it.”

“If he doesn’t slow down he’s going to go right over the edge.”

“Dammit.”

Suddenly Doug Tisdale’s car jerked into the opposite lane, just missing one car and passing another before going off the road and running straight into a telephone pole. The whole front of the car wrapped around the wooden post as Doug Tisdale flew through the front window, his face and hands getting ripped to shreds as he flew up and back down onto what was left of the hood of the car.

Parks pulled his car over to the side of the road. Fairmont and him both jumped out and stopped the passing traffic as they made their way across the road to Tisdale’s vehicle. Smoke rose from the totaled vehicle as they approached and found Doug Tisdale dying on top of the hood of his car.

“Call it in,” Parks said.

Fairmont called in their location when Hayward and two other black-and-whites pulled up and cut off traffic. The two officers began redirecting traffic while Hayward made his way to Parks’s side and looked down at Tisdale’s body. Blood covered the shattered windshield, and glass stuck haphazardly out of the man’s face, neck, and hands. His left eye had been completely detached, a shard of glass now resting instead in the man’s vacant socket. The top of Tisdale’s scalp had been taken clean off, along with a portion of the man’s skull, to reveal his throbbing brain as it slowed down in function. Tisdale’s gaze reached up to Parks and Hayward and he tried to mutter something but only emitted a stream of blood as the entire insides of his mouth had been cut open.

Parks remained quiet, pissed off at the situation.

Even though he could hear the sirens of an ambulance in the distance, he knew there was no saving Doug Tisdale, and in losing Tisdale, they’d lose any hope of finding out why he had committed the murders. They figured his wife’s infidelity had triggered the man’s rage and murderous rampage, but Parks still felt there was more to it and wished he could ask the dying man about it.

“Do you smell that?” Fairmont asked as he lowered his head in close to the driver’s window, which had been sha
ttered.

“Some kind of gas,” Hayward said from behind the dete
ctive. “His car smells like it’s filled with it.”

“Then why was he driving it? And why was it filled with it?”

“That’s probably why he began to swerve.”

“But why? Why do it? Why get into the car if it was filled with poisonous gas?”

“Suicide?” Hayward shrugged. “Figured he’d go the way he was killing others? If he was punishing according to the Ten Commandments maybe he was saving himself for last? Thou shalt not kill.”

“That could have been his endgame all along,” Fairmont said, agreeing. “Brings everything around full circle. Makes sense. Maybe this was a suicide mission from the start.”

Parks remained silent. He didn’t know what to think or say right then.

Tisdale’s last breath finally escaped from between mis
sing teeth and sliced lips. Those were questions they would most likely never have answers to.

34

“Fill out your reports tonight before leaving,” Hardwick said. “All of you. What you have. Everything. There’s a full-on press release going out in the morning and Media Relations needs to know everything possible about this entire case.”

“Everything” wasn’t as much as Parks would have liked at the moment, but they were still working on wrapping things up five hours after Doug Tisdale’s unfortunate demise up on Mulholland. CI and detective teams tore through Ti
sdale’s UCLA office and Beverly Hills house, causing more than enough commotion for the gossipy neighborhood despite the growing hour. Every aspect of Tisdale’s life was being dissected and gone through with a fine-tooth comb. Though connections to the suspects were being made, irrefutable and damning evidence had yet to be produced. Word throughout the department was that he had to have a “place” where he conducted his business outside of the home and office, though they’d found nothing so far that had been able to lead them to a concrete location.

“We just need the proof that Tisdale’s our guy,” Har
dwick went on. “This entire case doesn’t have to be wrapped up tonight. You guys can take as long as you need with what all you have to go through. We just need to assure the public that the Palisades Poisoner is done and finished with and that they are all safe once again. Luckily, it’s after nine, so we’ve missed the early evening news, but there’s still late night and we only want them to get trickles until tomorrow morning. Okay? Fill them in. Then go home. Parks. Fairmont. Hayward. All three of you. Good job. We got the son of a bitch.”

Hardwick stared at Parks, who was avoiding eye contact.

“We did get him, right?”

“We’ll have all of our reports for you by the end of the evening,” Parks said. “Mine included.”

Hardwick breathed deeply, both mentally and physically exhausted. She wasn’t satisfied with his answer, but was not in the mood to argue at this time of night. Parks felt the same way.

“We’ll make the connection,” Parks assured her.

Hardwick went to leave the conference room and stopped by Tippin, who was at the end of the table with a dozen files spread out before him while he typed away on his computer.

“You too, Tippin,” Hardwick added. “No idea what the hell you’re doing now, but we couldn’t have done this wit
hout you. Get some rest.”

“Just finishing up some paperwork for Parks,” Tippin said with a smile.

Hardwick nodded and left the room.

“Milo,” Parks called out. When Tippin didn’t reply, he tried again. “Milo? You find me something?”

Tippin scrunched up his face, unsure how to answer.

“Hayward?” Tippin asked, trying to be sensitive. “You worked on the Cosway case, right?”

“What about it?” Hayward asked.

“I mean from the beginning. You did the initial investig
ation into the two brothers.”

“What do they have to do with anything? That case is closed. The suspects are dead, and as sick as this Palisades Poisoner guy was, he saved the city a lot of money by offing those two whack-jobs. What are you doing?”

“I just have a few questions I’m trying to answer is all,” Tippin said.

Hayward tapped his pencil rapidly on the table and looked to Parks.

“I’ve asked him to look into a few things,” Parks said. 

“Fine,” Hayward huffed, getting up and leaving the room. He reentered the room and dropped the Cosway murder book onto the table next to Tippin. “Here you go. Everything you want to know but were afraid to ask about the Cosway brothers. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” Tippin said, beginning to dig through the navy-blue binder.

Though he couldn’t hear for sure, Parks thought he caught Hayward mutter something to express his irritation.

*                            *                            *

“That’s it for me,” Hayward said, looking up two hours later.

Fairmont had finished twenty minutes before and, after thanking everyone in the room, left quietly and quickly. Parks had the sneaking suspicion that Fairmont was off to check on Rachel Moore again. He wasn’t sure what was blossoming between the two detectives (if at all), or had possibly been blossoming, but figured either way it was an issue for another day. They were each allowed their lives outside of the job. Who was he to interfere?

“Feel like a drink once you’re done?” Hayward asked Parks.

“I’m going to be at least another hour,” Parks said, tapping his report. “Probably two. And I still have to go over the entire case with Hardwick. And honestly, I’m exhausted. I need to do nothing but sleep for the next twenty-four hours and not be disturbed. I plan on taking the battery out of my cell and unplugging my home phone. I hope no one needs to get a hold of me at all. But I’m game for tomorrow night if anyone’s around.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hayward said, standing and gathe
ring his report. “Thanks for everything. It’s been good working on this case with you. Even if the circumstances have been less than desirable.”

“You too,” Parks said, shaking Hayward’s hand. “And thanks for your help on this case. We couldn’t have done it without you. I mean that. It’s been noted and will be a
cknowledged.”

“Thanks,” Hayward said. He turned to leave and noticed Tippin still digging through the murder book. “Night, ki
ddo.”

Tippin looked up and smiled before digging back into the casebook. Hayward disappeared out the door without anot
her word.

“You’ve been done with your report for the last thirty-seven minutes,” Tippin said without looking up.

“Is that so?” Parks wasn’t at all surprised by the comment. “What have you found?”

“You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“Even if it might upset you?”

Parks sighed, telling Tippin to continue but tread lightly.

“It might take your entire case and shake it apart,” Tippin said, his voice barely audible.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say something like that. Luckily for you, I’m not buying this Tisdale as our killer angle anyways. Tell me what you have,” Parks said as he searched for another cup of coffee, realizing he had already drank too much if he was planning on going to sleep within the next decade. 

“You’re still wondering why he’s poisoning people, aren’t you?” Tippin asked. “That’s why you had me dig through the old files, isn’t it?”

“Well if we go with Tisdale as our killer it’s because he knows poisons and has access to them,” Parks said. “But poisons weren’t really his forte. I mean, that would be a good reason. But why do it? Poisoning someone is complicated. There has to be a reason behind it. A meaning. And I don’t think it’s access. As we’ve stated several times, it’s a hell of a lot easier to get a knife than cyanide or methanol. These poisonings have meanings behind them. Like the Ten Commandments and the Council of the Ten. But Tisdale doesn’t fit the bill for either of those two things. He wasn’t a religious man, and he didn’t care two hoots about history from what I’ve been able to tell by his home and office studies. So why the Ten Commandments and the Council? There’s no connection.”

“And you’re hoping the answer was in what I was di
gging through?” Tippin asked, getting a nod from Parks. “Okay. So the archives. Starting with this year going back to find what I was looking for.”

“The original murder that set this whole thing off,” Parks said, calmly.

“Let’s go back to the original theory of the Ten Commandments being the link between the ten murders.”

“Yes.”

“What are the two commandments we don’t have a victim for?” Tippin asked. “If we assume Allison Tisdale broke the commandment about committing adultery.”

Parks turned to the murder board.

“We have thou shall not bear false witness against your neighbor and thou shall not kill,” Parks said.

“Yes. Okay,” Tippin said, standing up and getting ene
rgized. “So, searching through the files, I think I found what you were looking for. I found one which I think not only counts as a death by poisoning but also links up with the commandments up there.”

“Who?”

“Female student from PSU. Two, two and a half years ago now,” Tippin explained. “Twenty-two-year-old named Julie Hammond.”

“Is this the other girl in that photo?

“It is.”

“There’s connection number one. What about her?”

“Seems she had an affair with one of her professors.” Parks was tempted to say something to stop Tippin but knew the kid was on a roll. “Anyway, she used him to get a better grade in class or something like that. Whatever. Doesn’t matter why they were sleeping together—just that they were. They were secretive, but apparently some of her classmates found out about the affair and threatened to go to the dean with what they knew. But she beat them to it. She filed complaints against the students and had them expelled from the university. An investigation was launched by the university, on behalf of the students who were expelled, and they found out that Julie Hammond had made up the charges against her classmates.”

“Shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor,” Parks muttered, putting it all together and wondering what that meant for his case.

“Possibly. So the school launched an investigation into Julie Hammond’s life and uncovered a whole slew of accusations. Sleeping with a professor. Cheating on exams. Drugs. Blackmail against other students and teachers. Lots of things. Rumors began to fly.”

“True?”

“Who knows? But people talked. People like to gossip. Especially on a campus. I’ve been doing research online about it. No two stories are the same.”

“So the false rumors she spread came back to bite her in the ass.”

“Big-time karma. Part of the problem was that she was also bipolar. Apparently suffered from depression and had been on medication since she was sixteen or so. She blamed the other students, saying they’d messed with her medication, as part of the reason she behaved the way she did. But then she accused the psychologist who was evaluating her of blackmailing her into sleeping with him in exchange for a clean bill of health. No one believed her though. Kind of the boy-who-cried-wolf syndrome.”

“This psychologist that she was seeing . . .”

“He was assigned to her by the university to help testify for their side of the lawsuit. You know—she has her own people check her out then they have theirs. Sort of a he said-she said sort of deal. This was all for the legal process that they were going through.”

“This psychologist,” Parks said. “You know his name?”

“Um . . . I know he’s a part-time professor at the university,” Tippin said, digging through some notes. “He did the psychology thing on the side. Here it is—Professor Fredrick Knott. Anyway, no one believed Julie Hammond’s allegations against him. She spiraled after that. Couldn’t handle that no one believed her story.”

“And don’t tell me . . . she killed herself?”

“Was found in her dorm room. She choked to death on her own vomit.”

“Pills?”

“They found two empty bottles next to her,” Tippin said, nodding. “Bottle of codeine and one of Percodan.”

“Same two pills we found on Allison Tisdale’s body at the first crime scene. So there’s connection number two.” Parks whistled. “So in effect, she was poisoned.”

“Yep. Or at least whoever took her death personally saw it that way.”

“Who was she survived by?”

“Not just yet.” Tippin smiled. “First, you want to know how the other nine people poisoned connect with her?”

“You can connect all nine poisonings to her?”

“Pay attention. And prepare to be dazzled.” Tippin walked over to the murder board, uncapped a dry erase pen, and began making marks from each person on the board to the next. “First, because of the legal case against Julie Hammond, her family had to hire lawyers to handle the accusations brought up against her by the families of the other students expelled, as well as the school’s accusations. The family lost a lot of money. And in the shuffle they had to sell their house. Guesses on who sold it once they lost it?”

“Allison Tisdale.”

“Bingo. Sure, she had acquired the house after it was seized, but she still sold it. I did some more digging. Apparently Julie confronted Allison about selling their house. Made a scene at the job. Police were called and a complaint was filed. But it did no good. And two years ago, who was taking pictures of the houses that Allison Tisdale was selling?”

“Ian Harris.”

“Yup. He was also listed as a witness on the complaint filed against Julie.”

“Okay. Next? Jason Bollinger? How does he fit in?”

“What did Jason Bollinger do?”

“An investment advisor or something.”

“Actually, two years ago he was an insurance broker. Until he lost his license and became a private investment advisor. Works on your finances and makes sure you get the best insurance possible. Medical. Life. Home. Everything. And guess who one of his clients were?”

“The Hammonds?”

“Yep. He was hired to help with the financial strain they felt due to legal and medical bills. The mother had cancer and spent most of the time this was happening in and out of hospitals. Now, I don’t believe that Bollinger was quite to the corrupt stage of stealing from his clients, but he was mishandling their affairs. And they were already in a tight spot. It wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back, but it was another stone on the pile. Next?”