Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise Read online

  SHADOW OF A KILLER

  The Dark Side of Paradise

  by

  Frank A. Perdue

  Although many locations actually exist, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Frank A. Perdue.

  This book is dedicated to Nonie my wife of over 50 years. Her advice and editing skills allowed me to get beyond page too, fore, and even ate.

  Other books by Frank A. Perdue

  Journey of Shadows 2012

  Lost in the Shadows 2013

  The Color of Deception 2014

  Copyright 2014 by Frank A. Perdue

  Chapter One

  Some descriptions that come to mind for where it happened are hairpin turn, or dead man’s curve, but this was worse. Take the sharp right angle bend in the roadway, which was complicated by a slight tilt toward the cliff side. Factor in the wet roadway from all the recent unusual snow and rain, and the zero visibility produced by fog, and you have a prescription for disaster, which would have been the way to describe it, except for one thing; There was no victim.

  The light skid marks were there, crossing the oncoming lane of traffic, and heading straight off the cliff bordering the road on the left. The mangled vehicle, a Chevrolet Bel Air, vintage nineteen-fifty-four, lay in a shallow bed of stark white snow, wheels up. Without the white stuff, there might have been a fire, given that the gas tank was nearly full. The nearly new tank ruptured, as might be expected with the violent jostling as the vehicle overturned. The warm pinkish liquid spewed out upon the snow, melting its top layer, but cooling without ignition.

  The wreck was exactly eighty-six feet down the nearly seventy degree drop off, as measured by the San Diego County Sheriff’s deputy who was first on the scene.

  Everything would have been easier for the law enforcement people, had there been a body in the car, given that it was registered to one Ivan Dunn, A fact that was verified by the paperwork found in the intact glove-box of the vehicle. This was the same individual who had been the subject of an intense manhunt for the last two days.

  There had been the usual eye-witness sightings phoned in. It was up to the cops to determine which ones were reliable. So far the fugitive had been reported in six different places at the same time. It wasn’t at all unusual because of the sensational nature of the case. Was he in Phoenix, or maybe Seattle? There were also leads from the Imperial Valley, Redwood City, Boise, and even New York to consider, since this case had quickly drawn national attention. They all had to be checked out. Manpower was not a problem. Every agency in Southern California had offered help in finding the cop killer. Suddenly they were all pulling together to locate Ivan Dunn. Surely law enforcement in the other cities across the country would also assist in any way they could. The ruthless killer who had committed a heinous crime must be brought to justice. The outcome was all but assured.

  Vincent Allison, of the San Diego Daily Journal was the reporter assigned to write the facts of the case, and fan the flame of public interest. Allison had actually met Ivan Dunn, and he liked the man. It wasn’t a chance meeting. The slightly paunchy balding reporter of fifty-five years had done a story about him shortly after he arrived in the journalist’s city. His editor had heard of Dunn’s exploits in finding a long missing person. It was hard for Vince to believe the erstwhile private investigator could be mixed up in what was soon to become the most sensational murder case to engulf and enthrall San Diego County readers in a very long time. It was Vincent Allison’s job to make it just that.

  The reporter had displayed a bird-dog mentality in searching for the truth. He’d been on the job with the paper for nearly twenty years, and had developed a reputation for ferreting out the truth of an assignment, no matter how long it took. Though his sentiments were with Ivan Dunn, he reserved the right to change his mind. He tried to never let personal feelings enter into the writing of his articles, at least so anyone would notice. The accident, if it was that, occurred in the mountains at the four thousand foot level, about fifty miles east of San Diego. As far as was known, the only occupant of the vehicle was the suspect. His wife, one Rachel Dunn, previously Rachel Embree, was being questioned by the San Diego County Sheriffs. She had not provided any insight into her husband’s whereabouts, or the reason for the carnage that had begun only three days earlier.

  She had been transported back to San Diego from the cabin that had been rented by the couple a week before the incident that changed their lives. She repeatedly denied that her husband could have done such things. So far there was nothing to indicate that the recently married woman was in any way involved in the plot. The interrogators kept hammering away at her anyway.

  Since Allison had very few answers in the early days of the investigation he filled his column with background and fluff. He knew of Dunn’s exploits in the Marines in World War II during the attack on Makin Island in nineteen forty-two, shortly after Pearl Harbor, and the Purple Heart awarded to the sergeant as a result.

  He had a vague awareness of the Phillip Atchison the Third missing person case that brought the novice private dick a ton of money, so much of the green stuff that Dunn had been able to retire after his one and only case. Then, after moving to San Diego from the Midwest, he’d been pulled back into the life of a gumshoe, when he tried to help a homeless amnesiac. That led to a shootout with the mob back in his home town of Chicago that very nearly took not only Dunn’s life, but also that of his fiancée Rachel Embree.

  So how did it come to this?

  When Ivan and Rachel were married in nineteen fifty-two, at about the time Dwight David Eisenhower was elected to replace Harry Truman, who earlier had announced that he wouldn’t run for a second full term, everything was looking great. Everything except for the fact that Rachel’s son Thomas was still in Korea, with no end to the conflict in sight, at least as far as they knew. She hadn’t seen him since his last stateside visit in nineteen fifty, though she had received a letter from her son relating that he was on temporary duty in Tokyo with the Military Police. The upbeat letter relieved her fears slightly.

  It hadn’t really been a leave when he’d come home. The young man had gotten a hardship discharge to be with his mother after she was shot by the deranged Harold Lambright; the same individual who had raped her a year earlier. Thank God the man was locked away in a Virginia prison where he belonged. Thomas had been able to reenlist when he was no longer needed at home. He rejoined his old outfit in Korea, before being informed he was to report to Japan. Ivan had given up his Private Investigator’s license. It was not valid in California anyway. He had purchased a beautiful home in the La Jolla hills, with a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean. His wife had a garden in the spacious back yard where she could putter. Rachel was happy just staying home, but Ivan didn’t want her to feel trapped, so they explored the beautiful scenery available to them along the many beaches of San Diego, including the rocky shores of Sunset Cliffs, a picture postcard setting south of Ocean Beach. They went to movies, and to nightclubs where they could dance and act like youngsters, even though they were both in their forties. They could be seen walking above the beach at La Jolla some evenings, even venturing down to the cove below, watching the Sun set on the ocean’s horizon, and holding hands. They really didn’t have a care in the world, save the concern they both felt for Thomas, who could still be in harm’s way. They’d been through a baptism of fire, more than once,
and they had come through it with a new appreciation of life, and a deep love for one another.

  There was some anxiety about Rachel becoming pregnant. They were very active sexually. They made love a couple of times a week on average, and, though she was almost at the threshold of not being able to conceive, neither of them wanted to take a chance. They felt they were too old to start raising another child, even though Ivan had never fathered one of his own. He thought of Thomas as being his, and intended to adopt him when the young man returned home from the war. Rachel did not want Ivan to have the operation that would make him sterile, since she could wear a diaphragm. He objected for a while, thinking of her discomfort, but he finally gave in. His wife was very persuasive.

  Ivan didn’t need to work outside the home. He was very well off, thanks to an unexpected inheritance, courtesy of the mother he never knew. He spent some of his time remodeling the spacious house to conform more to Rachel’s idea of what a residence should be, other than the extravagant bachelor pad it had been before she consented to move west and join him. She made no demands in that area, but he loved her and wanted her to be completely happy.

  He had received a medical discharge from the Marines late in nineteen forty-five, after the war. His injuries on Makin Island in nineteen forty-two had left him with a chronic limp and got him transferred to Intelligence to ride out the rest of the war. After the hostilities he wasn’t awarded full disability, but the partial one allowed him to take advantage of military benefits, just like the retired servicemen received. He spent time at the Non-commissioned officer’s club at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, since he was a staff sergeant when he was mustered out. He’d share war stories with the other noncoms. Life for the Dunns was good heading into nineteen fifty-four. There was no hint of the firestorm to come.

  Chapter Two

  When the letter arrived offering them a week at a cabin in the mountains outside San Diego, they were surprised. They hadn’t entered any contests. The explanation was that they were picked at random for advertising purposes. It was felt, so the letter said, that if they enjoyed their stay they would talk about it to their friends, thereby increasing the chances of more sales by the company. They didn’t notice the lack of a postmark on the letter, which arrived in a plain manila stamped envelope. Nor had they heard of the company making the offer, the Great Western Vacation and Land Company. It didn’t occur to them to check out the credentials of the firm making such a bequest.

  The timing of the offer seemed to be perfect. The two of them had talked of taking a trip to the mountains. It was the only area of the county they hadn’t explored. Ivan had said he missed the changing seasons like he had in Chicago growing up. The thought of cavorting in the snow and then being able to leave it behind at his bidding rather than waiting out a seasonal change appealed to him. Rachel, on the other hand, thought it might be a nice change, and be a kind of honeymoon. They hadn’t yet had a real one. Money was no object but they couldn’t agree on where to go, and they both had the euphoric feeling they had all the time in the world, now that they were together.

  They even talked of perhaps purchasing a property if it turned out to be anything like the enclosed brochure.

  February in the San Diego area is mild relative to much of the country, due to the lower latitude and the relatively warmer water adjacent to the city. The jet stream separating the colder air to the north from the southwestern states seldom dips south, even in winter. The mountains, however, are a different story. Snow that falls in the higher elevations when the occasional storm does penetrate into Southern California melts rather quickly despite the colder air that lingers over the peaks, and more persistent clouds that hang over the mountain ridges. As a result, many residents at the lower elevations of the county flock to the mountains, lest the snow melt and they miss their chance. It might be weeks or months before they have another chance, what with the mild climate. At those times the treacherous, winding roads up and down the mountain are clogged with traffic.

  There was abundant snowfall at and above four thousand feet that week in February of nineteen fifty-four. The cabin occupied by the Dunns was at nearly six thousand. The road accessing the Laguna Mountains was steep, with sharp turns.

  Ivan had recently traded in his old Studebaker for a new Chevy. It was a tough decision. He loved the old car, but old was the operative word, and it was not the most reliable vehicle on the highway. He was concerned that it might conk out sometime when his wife was alone driving the car. So it was time.

  The log cabin to which Ivan and Rachel were assigned was equipped with a radio, but no television. The owners thought, and rightly so, that the clientele attracted to their property would spend little time watching the tube. The first couple of days they were there they reverted to acting like newlyweds. He constantly marveled at his good fortune in marrying such a beautiful woman. Most of their nights extended into late morning as they were reluctant to leave each other’s arms. In the afternoon they ventured out into the white fluffy snow that had inched up to their porch the same night they arrived. They had snowball fights. They even built a snowman, and capped it with a beat up fedora that Ivan had worn on the drive up, to keep his head warm now that his forty-four year old hair was thinning, and for some strange reason, receding . Rachel contributed a frilly scarf to their piece of artwork. They were as happy as they had been on the day they were married.

  It wasn’t until the third evening at the cabin that they turned on the radio. It was a Sunday, and they both enjoyed the Jack Benny show. During the second commercial break, the local station broke in with a special announcement. A San Diego sheriff’s deputy had been shot in the city while exiting his car at his home after his evening shift. His wife was asleep in the house at the time, but she’d been awakened by a sound she mistook for a backfire. Wide awake now she donned her robe, went to the large window facing the street and looked out. Seeing her husband’s car parked in the driveway, she was relieved that he was home.

  It had taken her years to become used to the life of a policeman’s wife. For a long time she couldn’t sleep until the sound of his voice filled their small home. Gradually the fear that harm would come to him subsided, and sleep came easier.

  On this night she waited a few moments for him to come inside. When no one appeared she ventured out into the chilly night air, and found her husband lying still on the cold cement next to the driver’s side door. He was mortally wounded, and died in the ambulance just seconds before it pulled up to the emergency entrance of the hospital. He never spoke, taking the identity of his assailant to his grave, if he even knew it. No other information was available to the media at that time. At least none was divulged.

  The next morning Ivan drove the few short miles to a small grocery store down the hill to buy a newspaper. He was interested to know what happened, since it was in San Diego, and he had been in law enforcement to some degree. He promised Rachel that he would be careful driving in the snow. He kept his promise, and made the trip without incident.

  The store hadn’t yet received any San Diego papers, so he bought the Los Angeles Times. Even so, the story of the shooting was on the front page. He remembered thinking at the time that the news of a killing would have been buried deep inside the paper had the victim not been in law enforcement.

  When he arrived back at the cabin, he spread the paper he had purchased out on the kitchen table so his wife could look over his shoulder and read it along with him.

  SAN DIEGO POLICEMAN DIES AFTER SHOOTING

  The law enforcement officer, identified as Jack A. Carey died late last night before reaching the Hospital of a single gunshot wound to the chest just before midnight. There were no witnesses to the shooting which occurred outside the officer’s own residence. The reason for the attack is unclear at this time. A veteran of fifteen years with the San Diego County Sheriff’s department, Carey leaves a wife but no children.

  Ivan skimmed through the rest of the section to se
e if there was anything else about the shooting but he found nothing.

  “That poor woman! It seems fortunate now there were no children.” Rachel remarked.

  “I’m sure there’ll be more about it in tomorrow’s edition.” Ivan was going to remark that it’s usually the spouse that’s guilty, when all is said and done, but he stopped himself. He didn’t think his wife would be receptive to that line of reasoning. That night they again listened to the news on the radio, but there was nothing new on the investigation.

  Chapter Three

  On the fourth day of their vacation in the mountains of San Diego County, everything changed for Ivan and Rachel Dunn. They were lounging around in their spacious living room listening to music on the radio, when the broadcast was interrupted by a news announcer with an update on the recent killing in El Cajon.

  They were surprised to learn that a gun had been recovered at the scene of the policeman’s murder; a Colt .44. The commentator went on to elaborate that authorities were researching records to determine the owner, since any trace of fingerprints had been wiped clean. Results should be available in a couple of days.

  “That’s the model revolver I own,” Ivan voiced, to no one in particular. Rachel was busy in the kitchen preparing for their dinner. “I don’t think there are too many of those in existence anymore.”

  That evening the same radio station reported that the gun had been traced to one Ivan Dunn, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest, along with a search warrant for his residence, which was in La Jolla, California.

  “There’s no way that is my gun. It couldn’t be!,” Ivan said, his voice elevated and with a shocked look on his face, as his wife came into the room.