Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise Page 6

  “Okay, where do you go first?”

  “I’ll send Rodrigues out to interview the wife again. She might know something, and she could be in it up to her ears.”

  Harry hated using clichés, but it did fit.

  Ivan softened slightly. “You’ll have to tell Rachel what happened. She left to question the Carey woman.”

  “Damn! She shouldn’t meddle in police business.”

  “Put yourself in my place, and say that.”

  “Okay. I probably would do the same thing. But she doesn’t know what she’s getting into, and neither do you.”

  “All right my friend, how do we do this?” Ivan held out his hands for the expected handcuffs.

  “Let’s not get too dramatic. I don’t need restraints,” and he added the question, “do I?”

  As they walked out into the bright sunlight, Harry Shields took the lead. He raised his arms as the patrolman reacted when he saw his companion. “Holster your weapons men, let’s keep this peaceable.” He realized when he said it that it sounded like an old ‘B’ western. “Dunn is my prisoner. He’s turning himself in.”

  The uniformed officer seemed displeased, but he put down his firearm, and the two friends, FBI agent and wanted man, strode to Harry Shields car. For the moment Ivan Dunn was still alive.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rachel was shocked to find that her husband was locked away. Her favorite FBI agent had intercepted her as she returned to her home after her visit with Linda Carey. She’d been excited to tell her husband the facts she had learned.

  As she parked her car in the expansive driveway of their home she recognized the figure walking up to her vehicle. It was Harry Shields.

  “What are you doing back here?” She tried to hide her anxiety, sure that her husband was still hiding inside the mansion, and knowing, even though the FBI agent had become a friend since that fateful night when she was rescued from the big house on the shore of Lake Michigan, he would be duty bound to turn Ivan in.

  “Hello Rachel. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I didn’t know any other way to get in touch with you. I talked Ivan into surrendering. He’s safe, and in the County jail.”

  Rachel felt relief, and then shame for the feeling, since it meant her husband was now imprisoned for god knows how long. She trusted Harry Shields, and just as he, she wanted her husband out of harm’s way. She also knew this was only a temporary reprieve. There would be many who would want to send him to a permanent residence in prison, and throw away the key, or worse.

  “What do I do now?” She asked the professional.

  “He’ll need a good lawyer. Let me look into it.”

  They left it at that. Shields promised to get back to Rachel the next day, and she headed for the jail to hopefully see her husband.

  That didn’t work out too well. Turns out Ivan was still being processed, and she wouldn’t be allowed access to the prisoner until after his arraignment, which might not come for a week or so, depending upon the court’s work load. There was nothing left for her to do but go home and wait. She felt more pangs of guilt as she entered the front door of their expensive home, considering where her husband had to spend the night.

  The next day, early, Harry Shields called and recommended an attorney named Longfellow. He’d heard of the barrister, even in the city of angels.

  By some standards Jered Longfellow was a fraud. Sure, he was widely recognized in the community as a brilliant attorney, having won every case in recent memory.

  He was an imposing figure in court, standing six and a half feet. He had a Lincolnesque beard with reddish highlights that complemented his full head of wavy hair, combed straight back. He dressed impeccably, nearly always seen in a gray gabardine double-breasted suit. He didn’t just walk anywhere. He strutted, chest extended, with his long arms stretching well below his suit pockets. He had enormous hands, which gestured expansively while cross-examining. He elicited fear in anyone who might oppose him, with a booming low-pitched voice, and an icy stare. No one noticed that he wore lifts in his always well-polished black shoes. He needed to tower over all in his view. It was part of his mystique.

  Longfellow was a name he chose carefully, when he decided to pursue law. His given name was Jered Jessop. He didn’t like the sound of it. It wasn’t dignified enough. After legalizing the new surname, he carefully let slip the new fact that he was descended from that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

  His expertise in judicial chambers up to the time he was contacted by Rachel Dunn to represent her husband had been restricted to civil encounters. He had secured millions for his clients, some of whom were prominent socially in the booming city of San Diego. It wasn’t long before he was approached politically to run for City Council. He politely declined, citing his heavy workload. He left the door open for a later try however. That seemed to satisfy the political machine of his party, at least for the moment. There was still much money to be made from litigation. Of course he would run for office at a later date, and his lofty ambitions reached all the way to the White House.

  When Longfellow checked out a Mister Ivan Dunn, and found out how deep his potential client’s pockets extended, he was happy to accept the case.

  “Tell me everything you know,” The lawyer began when Mrs. Dunn arrived in his downtown office at the scheduled time.

  “There’s not much to go on,” Rachel said. “We’re pretty much in the dark as to what happened, except that we were tucked away in a vacation cabin when the policeman was shot, and Ivan’s gun was somehow found at the scene. Then they found a note confessing the murder on a typewriter, which isn’t even ours, in our home.”

  “Was a motive for the slaying on that note?”

  “No. That was strange, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure at this point. The whole scenario is problematic.” Longfellow loved large words. “I don’t understand why a killer would leave a note confessing the crime in his own home, to be found by investigators. Your husband isn’t stupid is he?”

  Rachel stared at the man with what could only be described as a condescending look, “What do you really think?”

  “I think it’s obvious he was set up. I’ll take the case Mrs. Dunn, but you must understand that this could be a long drawn out affair,” and he added for effect, “It will be very expensive.” Might as well get that out in the open right away. “I’ll need to arrange for an investigator. Twenty thousand will be enough to get us started.” He’d been staring at the well organized desk in front of him. When he looked up to note his new client’s reaction, he was surprised to see that there was none.

  “If you can manage bail for my husband, he’ll be able to handle any investigative work that needs to be done. It was his job you know.” It wasn’t a question. She was still upset over his ‘stupid’ remark regarding Ivan. But then she didn’t have to like the man to deal with him. He came highly recommended. “He would be chasing down leads right now if it wasn’t too dangerous for him to be seen,” she continued.

  “Let’s see what happens at the arraignment. Bail will be a tough sell, given what he’s charged with.” Longfellow could sense her dislike of him. Oh well, he thought, she’s certainly not the first client he’d displeased. It would have been better though, had he not made that silly remark about her husband being stupid. However an apology was not in his repertoire.

  This would be such a high profile case, it could easily propel him into the front-runner’s position, if and when he decided to make a run for office. It might even take him all the way to the Presidency. He knew that might be a leap, but Jered Longfellow was not in the habit of thinking small.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angelo Rodrigues was not a particularly ambitious man, as opposed to Jered Longfellow. He’d joined the FBI because he felt the agency did a lot of good, especially for the less fortunate and the minorities. He had no desire to be Special Agent-in-Charge. He was happy to accept assignments given to him by his superiors. So when he was told t
o interview slain officer Jack Carey’s widow, he didn’t question it. He knew the request came from Harry Shields, a man Angelo admired, even though he had been admonished recently by his mentor.

  When he arrived at the Carey home he was stopped by a uniformed Sheriff’s deputy.

  “Sir, you can’t go in there. This is part of an ongoing police investigation.”

  Angelo was in civilian attire, as was the custom of the FBI. It wouldn’t be unusual for the police to question his identity. He wore a dark suit and tie. He didn’t sport a hat, as did many in his field. He sported a full head of dark curly hair, of which he was extremely proud.

  “I’m here to interview the widow for the FBI,” he declared, holding out his official shield. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

  “I don’t care if you’re J. Edgar goddamn Hoover himself. You’re not going in there and bother that poor woman!”

  Angelo Rodrigues sized up his adversary. The man was tall, around six feet, with a rather thick waist. He had broad shoulders to go with his girth. His uniform hat was cocked slightly and revealed a bushy head of brown hair. He had thick eyebrows which framed a frown on his tanned countenance. If it came to a tussle, Angelo was sure he would suffer the worst of it. He was about to leave the premises when a slender attractive woman, about ten years older than he, the best he could tell, appeared on the porch of the house.

  “What’s going on Jay? Who are you talking to?”

  Before the burly guy, apparently named Jay, could speak, Angelo blurted out, “FBI ma’am. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “You don’t need to talk to this guy Linda. You’re probably tired of all this pestering.” The uniformed man named Jay interjected. “I can get rid of him.” He glared at the smaller man.

  Although the woman on the porch did appear to slump slightly, she belied her appearance by stating, “Nonsense, he’s just doing his job. Let him pass. If you hear me scream, then you come running. Okay?” She said it with a smile, as if it were a joke, and didn’t allow the man named Jay to answer. She just nodded toward Angelo Rodrigues and said in a pleasant voice, “Please come in.”

  Angelo, as he’d been taught, glanced around the spacious living room when he entered, a few steps behind the widow Carey. There were several pictures hanging on the walls, which appeared to be redwood-covered. A fireplace occupied the far wall and, along with small framed pictures on a mantle, there were large pictures of individuals on both sides of a brick façade rising to the ceiling. One was of a man that Angelo assumed to be Jack Carey. He wore a policeman’s uniform, which wasn’t unusual. On the other side was a full-bodied view of Linda Carey, elaborately dressed in a ruffled gown reminiscent of southern belles of the civil war era. She was adorned with a wide-brimmed hat that did nothing to hide her beauty. Angelo found himself staring at the photo of the woman, no longer interested in what the rest of the room might reveal.

  “That was my husband’s idea. He liked to sit in his big soft chair, drinking a beer and looking at that picture.”

  Angelo couldn’t help saying, “I don’t blame him,” before he could catch himself. He turned slightly red, as he said, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

  The woman smiled, obviously pleased, not only for the compliment, but they both knew that now she had the upper hand in the interview. Her eyes, which had been intent on the agent’s face, dropped slightly to his left hand, noticing his ring finger was devoid of encumbrances.

  “You’re not married agent Rodrigues?”

  “No.” That seemed like a strange question coming from a complete stranger.

  Her smile broadened. “Won’t you sit down? You seem very ill at ease standing there.”

  It was becoming obvious this beautiful specimen was toying with him. He decided to go along with it, for now. “As a matter of fact I am.” I think it has something to do with interviewing a woman.”

  “Are you saying you don’t get out much?”

  “I’ve obviously been missing a lot, haven’t I?” His embarrassment from before had faded somewhat, and he said, “We should get back to the reason I stopped by, shouldn’t we?

  Linda Carey laughed. “What is it you’d like to know?”

  The banter seemed to be over, so he asked, rather bluntly, staring right into her eyes as he did, “Do you know who killed your husband?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As word spread of the lurid killing in eastern San Diego County, one would be hard-pressed to find anyone who didn’t believe that Ivan Dunn was guilty of the foul crime. It was a no-brainer, wasn’t it? It was his gun that did the deed, and what could be called a confession was found on a typewriter in his La Jolla mansion.

  Until it was learned that he was incarcerated, the populace of not just El Cajon, but all of San Diego County, was on edge. They began locking their doors, not only at night. They became keenly aware of all that was happening around them, as if expecting a gunman to pop out of the nearby bushes, and begin firing.

  After Ivan Dunn was apprehended, it was discussed in cafes and barber shops all across town. There wasn’t one dissenting voice to be heard. Who was this killer anyway? He certainly wasn’t one of them. He was an outsider. Didn’t he come from Chicago? They were all gangsters back there. Who hadn’t heard of Al Capone, or the St. Valentines Day massacre. We don’t need any of that here, no sir. Start building up the electricity to fry the bum. Send a message that San Diego is a clean city. No trash here. What do you mean trial, due process? That would just slow everything up, use up our tax money for what purpose? Nah, he’s guilty, throw the switch.

  The editorials freshly printed in the San Diego papers did little to dissuade the public or slow the outcry for Ivan Dunn’s head. The flowery prose of professionals was all slanted toward a guilty verdict. That is, with the exception of Vincent Allison. His was the lone dissenting voice.

  Allison was convinced the affable man he had met could not have done such a foul deed. However, his words on paper to that effect did little to dissuade the general population. They felt safer knowing the killer was behind bars. It wouldn’t do to have a deranged individual out on the streets of their fair city.

  Jered Longfellow read the paper diligently. His job was being made much harder by the current rhetoric. He put a motion before the court at the arraignment of his client, to move the trial to another county of the state of California. The motion was taken into consideration by the judge. No decision was made at that time. He also requested a gag order, which was denied.

  Another request, this one for bail, was also refused. First-degree murder cases did not warrant bail. Once in a great while a judge would allow it, but he would set the figure so high, freedom would be out of the question. In the case of Ivan Dunn, it was understood by the court that the prisoner could make bail, even if it was in the millions of dollars. The judge did agree, however, to hear the case in a reasonable time, if he disallowed a change of venue. The prisoner, dressed in shabby-looking jail garb, and shackled by chains over his hands and feet, was then shuffled back to his cell.

  The investigator hired by Longfellow to do his legwork was Evan Castiglione, a third generation Sicilian, who was just as high-priced as the attorney. The thirty-five year old was a World War Two veteran who had earned his purple heart with the Marines on Tarawa. The Jap bullet had just missed his heart. As it was he was unconscious for a week-long enough to miss his evacuation from the beach, and the transport back to Pearl Harbor. He finally woke up in the Naval Hospital on Oahu. After his convalescence in Honolulu, he was flown by PBY to San Diego, and discharged there. He had no ties to his home town in Seattle, having received a Dear John from his girlfriend. There was no love lost with his parents either. He’d run away from their tyranny over him to join the Marines.

  It was a natural transition for Evan to join the San Diego Police. He was still young, only twenty-six, and he craved action. The laid-back beach life in San Diego was boring, even though, to most, the city was coming
to life with the post-war euphoria, and the expansion brought about by the influx of money due to the GI Bill.

  The car accident which cost him his career in law enforcement wasn’t his fault. He’d been hit broadside by a teenage unlicensed driver, who ran a red light. His partner wasn’t hurt. The impact was on the driver’s side, and Evan was unlucky enough to have driven that day. He ended up with pins in his left leg and ankle, and unemployment due to his physical impairment. Sure there was a disability pension, but it wasn’t enough to support him. Besides, he couldn’t just sit around his bachelor apartment and do nothing.

  That was five years ago. During the first year of his recuperation he’d discarded the crutches. About six months later he broke his cane over his good leg, about the same time he stopped frequenting the local bars.

  He met Jered Longfellow when the barrister was still establishing a name for himself. Evan had been hauled in for drunk and disorderly, having struck another patron of the saloon over the head with his cane. They were about the same age, and the attorney had a soft spot for ex-marines. He hadn’t served himself, being four F due to a hearing loss in his left ear. He felt guilty, and tried to help the less fortunate who had been called to fight in his place.

  Rachel Dunn had specified that she and her husband wouldn’t need another investigator, since they had the assistance of the FBI. Longfellow decided to give Castiglione some work anyway. He could just pad the expense account. It wouldn’t cost him anything and it would assuage his guilt, while giving his employee something to do. Who knows, he just might come up with something useful that could help his case, He thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Ivan was led back to his cell and unshackled after his arraignment, his shoulders slumped dejectedly as he sat on his cot. It seemed to him that this would be his life from now on, surrounded by the gray walls of his eight by ten cubicle, except of course for the row of bars that separated him from freedom. He glanced at the dingy toilet in the corner, and the accompanying sink with a rust dotted spigot. “I bet they bought them at the same thrift store,” he said aloud weakly, as he realized how tired his predicament had made him feel.