Gun Games (2 page)

Chapter Two

S
ince the Hammerling case was aired on the TV show
Fugitive,
Decker had been getting calls, most of them dead ends. Still, he made it a habit to probe every single lead no matter how inane the tip. A serial killer was on the loose, and there was no such thing as half-assed investigation. The current tip was a spotting in the New Mexican desert in a small blip of a town somewhere between Roswell—known for its close encounters with UFOs—and Carlsbad, known for its network of underground caves. In the middle of nowhere was always a great place to hide out. Plus that region was in a direct line to Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, where, by some estimates, there had been more than twenty thousand murders in the past decade. The vast majority of the dead had been participants in vicious drug wars. But there was also a large minority of young female victims, possibly five thousand of them, called
feminicidios,
most between the ages of twelve and twenty-five, with no apparent connection to one another. The Mexicans’ penchant for violence would provide convenient cover for someone like Garth Hammerling if he could avoid getting killed himself.

Decker raked fingers through his thick head of hair, which retained some bright red highlights among the gray and white. Hannah said the streaks looked very punk. He smiled when he thought of his youngest daughter. She was away in Israel for the year and then after that would be starting college at Barnard. His children ranged from midthirties to eighteen and he had yet to experience an empty nest, courtesy of two very disturbed people who unwittingly enlisted his and Rina’s help in raising their child. Gabriel was a good kid, though—not a bother, but he was a presence.

Currently, Rina was teaching the fifteen-year-old how to drive.

I thought I was long past that one,
she had told him.
We plan and God laughs
.

The good news was that his baby grandsons, Aaron and Akiva, from his elder daughter, Cindy, were almost three months old. They had been born three weeks early at five pounds, thirteen ounces and six pounds, one ounce. At the end of her pregnancy, Cindy had been carrying around more than sixty pounds of baby weight. But being athletic and working out almost every day, she had dropped the pounds and then some. She was currently on maternity leave from her position as a newbie detective with Hollywood. She planned to go back as soon as she found the right nanny. In the meantime, Rina and his ex-wife, Jan, were willing substitutes. The babies were way more work than Gabe.

Decker smoothed his mustache while studying the phone message.

The tip had been given by the New Mexico State Police. This was the fourth sighting of Garth Hammerling in New Mexico, and Decker was beginning to think that maybe he was on to something. He called up the 505 area code and after a series of holds and call switching, he was connected to CIS—Criminal Investigative Section—in Division 4. The investigator who was assigned to follow up the lead was named Romulus Poe.

“I know the guy who phoned it into the show,” Poe told Decker. “He owns a motel in Indian Springs located about forty miles south of Roswell. The man is what you might call an indigenous character. He sees and hears things that elude most of us mere mortals. But that doesn’t mean he’s totally loco. I’ve been out here for twelve years. Before that I was ten years in Las Vegas Metro Homicide. I’ve seen and heard my fair share of freak. The desert is no place for the fainthearted.”

“What’s the guy’s name?” Decker asked.

“Elmo Turret.”

“What’s his story?”

“He claims he saw a guy that looked like the picture of Hammerling shown on
Fugitive.
Elmo said he saw him a few days ago, camping out ten miles south from his motel. I’m just clearing out a drug bust. I spent the afternoon pulling out around an acre of mature MJ plants and I don’t mean Michael Jordan. As soon as I’m done with the processing of the local yokels who owned the land, I’ll swing by the area on my bike and see if I can’t find any veracity to the story.”

“Call me one way or the other. You know, this is the fourth spotting I’ve received from New Mexico.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Ever been here?”

“Just Santa Fe.”

“That’s another country—civilized for the most part. Down here . . . well, what can I say? The Wild West is alive and kicking.”

P
aperwork took up another hour, and by seven-thirty in the evening, Decker was about to call it quits when his favorite detective, Sergeant Marge Dunn, knocked on the sash to his open door. The woman was five ten with square shoulders and wiry muscle. She was dressed for winter L.A. style, wearing brown cotton slacks and a tan cashmere sweater. Her blond hair—and getting blonder by the years—was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Have a seat,” Decker told her.

“I’ve got a woman outside wanting to talk to you,” Marge said. “Actually, she wanted to talk to Captain Strapp but since he left, she settled for the next in line.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Wendy Hesse and she told me that her business is personal. Rather than push my weight around, I figured it would be easier to send her to you.”

Decker peeked at his watch. “Sure, bring her in while I go grab a cup of coffee.”

By the time he got back, Marge had seated the mystery woman. Her complexion was an unhealthy shade of putty and her blue eyes, though dry at the moment, had cried many tears. Her hair was cut helmet style—dark brown with white roots. She was a big-boned woman and appeared to be in her late forties. She was dressed in a black sweater and black sweatpants with sneakers on her feet.

Marge said, “Lieutenant Decker, this is Mrs. Hesse.”

He put the coffee cup on his desk. “Can I get you something to drink?”

The woman looked at her lap, shook her head, and mumbled something.

“Pardon me?” Decker said.

She snapped her head up. “No . . . thank you.”

“So how can I help you?”

Wendy Hesse looked at Marge, who said, “Maybe I’ll get some coffee. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water, Mrs. Hesse?”

The woman refused a second offer. After Marge left, Decker said, “How can I help you, Mrs. Hesse?”

“I need to talk to the police.” She folded her hands and looked at her lap. “I don’t know how to start.”

Decker said, “Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“My son . . .” Her eyes watered. “They say he . . . that he committed suicide. But I don’t . . . I don’t believe it.”

Decker regarded her in a different context. “You’re Gregory Hesse’s mother.”

She nodded as tears flowed down her cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Hesse.” He handed her a tissue. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now.” When she started sobbing openly, Decker stood up and put his hand on her shoulder. “Let me get you some water.”

She nodded. “Maybe that’s a good . . . idea.”

Decker caught Marge at the coffeepot. “The woman is Gregory Hesse’s mom—the teen in the paper who committed suicide.” Marge went wide-eyed. “Anyone from Homicide at the scene yesterday?”

“I was in court.” She paused. “Oliver was there.”

“Did he talk to you about it?”

“Not really. It got him down. You could read it in his face. But he didn’t say anything about the death being suspicious.”

Decker filled up a wax paper cup with water. “Mrs. Hesse has her doubts about suicide. Would you mind sticking around? I’d like another ear.”

“Of course.”

Both of them went back to his office. To Mrs. Hesse, Decker said, “I’ve asked Sergeant Dunn here. She partners with Scott Oliver who was at your house yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hesse,” Marge said.

Tears ran down her cheeks. Mrs. Hesse said, “There were . . . lots of police at the house.”

“Detective Oliver was in civilian dress. I don’t remember what he was wearing yesterday. He’s in his fifties—”

“That one,” she said, drying her eyes. “I remember him. Amazing . . . it’s still a blur . . . a nightmare.”

Decker nodded.

“I keep expecting to . . . wake up.” She bit her lip. “It’s
killing
me.” The tears were falling again faster than she could dry them. “What you can do for me is find out what really happened.”

“Okay.” Decker paused. “Tell me, what don’t you believe about your son’s death?”

Wet droplets fell onto her folded hands. “Gregory did not
shoot
himself. He’s never used a gun in his life! He hated guns. Our entire family abhors violence of any kind!”

Decker took out a notepad. “Tell me about your boy.”

“He
wasn’t
suicidal. He wasn’t even
depressed.
Gregory had friends, he was a good student. He had lots of interests. He never even remotely hinted at suicide.”

“Anything about him change over the last few months?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe a little more moody?” Marge suggested.

“No!” She was resolute.

Decker asked, “Did he sleep more? Did he eat more? Did he eat less?”

Wendy’s sigh signaled exasperation. “He was the same boy—thoughtful . . . he could be quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean depressed, you know.”

“Of course not,” Decker told her. “I hate to ask you this, Mrs. Hesse, but how about past drug use?”

“Nothing!”

“Tell me a little about Gregory’s interests. What about extracurricular activities?”

She was taken aback. “Uh . . . I know he tried out for the debate team.” Silence. “He did very well. They told him to come back next year when there’s more room.”

Meaning he didn’t make it. “What else?” Decker said.

“He was in math club. He excelled in math.”

“What did he do on the weekends?”

“He was with his friends; he went to the movies. He studied. He was taking a full load including an AP course. ”

“Tell me about his friends.”

She crossed her arms in front of her ample bosoms. “Gregory may have not been one of the popular kids.” She made air quotes over the word
popular
. “But he certainly wasn’t an outcast.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t. What about his friends?”

“His friends were . . . he got along with everyone . . . Gregory did.”

“Can you be more specific? Did he have a best friend?”

“Joey Reinhart. He’s been friends with him since grade school.”

“Any others?” Marge asked.

“He had friends,” Mrs. Hesse kept repeating.

Decker tried a different approach. “If Gregory had to fit into a high school category, what would it be?”

“What do you mean?”

“You mentioned the popular kids. There are other cliques: jocks, skaters, stoners, nerds, rebels, brainiacs, philosophers, hipsters, Goths, vampires, outcasts, artistes . . .” Decker shrugged.

The woman’s mouth was set in a thin line. Finally, she said, “Gregory had all sorts of friends. Some of them had some problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“You know.”

“Problems to us usually mean, sex, drugs, or alcohol,” Marge said.

“No, not that.” Wendy kneaded her hands. “Some of his friends were a little slower to mature. One boy, Kevin Stanger . . . they picked on him so bad that he transferred to a private school over the hill.”

“He was bullied?” Decker asked. “And by bullied, I mean physical contact.”

“All I know is he was transferred.”

“When was this?” Marge asked.

“About six months ago.” The woman looked down. “But that wasn’t Gregory. No sirree. If Gregory were being picked on, I would have known about it. I would have done something. I’ll tell you that much.”

Precisely the reason why Gregory might not have told her. Decker said, “He never came home with unexplained bumps or bruises?”

“No! Why don’t you believe me?”

“I do believe you,” Decker said. “But I have to ask certain questions, Mrs. Hesse. You want a competent investigation, right?”

The woman was quiet. Then she said, “You can call me Wendy.”

“Whatever you’d prefer,” Decker said.

Marge said, “Any girlfriends in his life?”

“I didn’t know of any.”

“Did he go out on the weekends?”

“Mostly, he and his friends go to each other’s houses. Joey’s the only one old enough to drive.” Wendy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Mine never will.” Instant sobs. Decker and Marge waited until the hapless woman could find her voice again. “A couple of times”—she wiped her eyes—“when I went to pick him up . . . I saw a few girls.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I asked Gregory about them. He said they were Tina’s friends.”

“Who’s Tina?” Marge asked.