Mind Games (2 page)

The case that convinced Amy of Vince’s potential involved a repeat-offender out on parole. The man tried to send anthrax envelopes to the capital building in Sacramento, but only one of the secretaries fell under exposure. During the investigation, Vince found vital clues that Amy’s current partner overlooked. These revelations eventually led to the successful capture of the anthrax criminal. At the time, Vince actually received a thank you letter from Governor Schwarzenegger’s office, signed by the big guy himself.

There was no way around it. Vince was annoying. But his no-bullshit attitude provided an unfiltered perspective.

Vince also had a long history of playing tricks during investigations. The hours of raunchy comedies he’d absorbed only fed his obnoxious attitude. Vince was notorious for scaring cops by arriving early to CSI scouts with a water gun. He’d sneak ahead and keep watch in the shadows as they surveyed the place. Then, he’d make whimpering noises from his hideaway only before jumping out to hose them down with his toy gun. Vince was briefly suspended for similar behavior earlier that spring, but he viewed the time off as a mini-vacation.

Vince was the type of person who would deliberately crack all of the eggs in the carton just so the cashier would have to send someone to get new one.

“So, really there were eight victims total,” Amy shined her light on a bottle of bleach next to the fish tank.

“We’re not seriously counting the fish,” Vince pulled up his pants and stepped forward. “I guess that means I’m going to lock up little Jonah when I get home. He gets frightened when strangers start dumping bleach down his throat. He seems to like soap though.”

This was classic Vince.

He did not own a goldfish named Jonah. In fact, he did not even have bleach in his apartment. People who used bleach usually cared about eliminating stains. Vince could care less about stains. Instead, he embraced them, collecting them like mini trophies on the undershirt just beneath his trench coat.

For example, a large gob of mustard stained his collar from the corndog he ate outside. The yellow-brown stain had already seeped into the fabric of his shirt, joining the red gob of ketchup from a gas station burger the night before. This was actually a rather accurate cross-section of his diet since he mostly ate at fast food joints. Vince would usually eat in his car or snarf down a microwaveable burrito back at the precinct. When eating at his apartment, Vince would open a can of beans with his car keys and slurp straight from the tin. Living alone allowed him to be a human garbage disposal. His only mistress was late night television, which he washed down with a two-liter cola and salty pork rinds: his favorite snack.

“Great observation,” Vince nudged Amy. “That’s why we keep you around
.
Hmmmm. Clue number twenty-seven
.
Bleach. Found by our very own Amy Hart
.
Gosh, Amy, we’d better inform the captain right away about that empty bottle of bleach. Those goldfish could have been withholding information.” He wagged his finger in Amy’s face. “Next time, you need to get here sooner and do your best to preserve all of the wildlife in the area before the investigation begins.”

“Vince…” Amy bore her bottom teeth.

“Amy, cool it. You’re like the queen of crazy!”

“Don’t forget, Vince. I got you this job,” Amy said. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sitting on the highway with a speed gun, pulling over moms in minivans.”

“Hey, that’s important work.”

“Are you trying to be funny again?”

“I don’t have to try.”

“Really?” Amy placed her left hand squarely on her hip and beamed the flashlight straight into Vince’s eyes. “You should do stand-up comedy, Vince. Just go down to the famer’s market and plug in a microphone. They’re already equipped with plenty of vegetables to throw when you start your spray of off-color tripe.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Vince turned to Cameron. “And she say
s
I’
m
the diva.”

Amy attributed Vince’s flippant behavior to the possibility that he was still going through puberty. That was the only explanation that made sense to her anymore.

Cameron tried to ignore their banter and explored further into the basement. He followed the muddy boot-prints back towards the bottom of the basement stairs and noticed a faint glint of light under the stairwell. He leaned down and peered under the final step.

The gun. Bingo.

*Click*  *Flash!*

“Amy, we’ve got a gun over here.”

“Nice work, Cam.” She reached under the stairs and removed the pistol: a Colt M1911 with a silencer. Amy bagged the gun and studied the muddy boot-prints on the basement floor. Moving around the prints, she positioned her body where the mud collected in a series of stomps. Amy held out her fingers like a gun. “So, the shooter probably stood about here, across from the pool table. And, Stefani was standing by the couch…”

“Then they had an argument about the drugs,” Vince interrupted.

“Not necessarily.” She widened her stance and squinted one of her eyes. “Either way, he shot Stefani. Three shots
.
Bang, Bang, Ban
g
.”

“Hold on,” Vince said. “The neighbors called in because they heard shots, but this gun was silenced. Besides, Stefani only has one bullet wound in his gut. Not three.”

“You’re right.” Amy followed the boot-prints back to the stairs. “So, if the perp shot Stefani and fled out the kitchen window, then what caused the shots heard by the neighbors?”

Vince looked back under the stairs before he turned around and saw three bullet holes in the drywall. “There has to be another gun.”

Amy paced backwards towards Stefani’s limp body. “Looks like there was a shoot-out here. And it seems Stefani was a lousy shot.” She raised her imaginary gun up again, this time pointing it towards the killer’s position.
“
Bang, Bang, Ban
g
. All misses…then…”

“
Bang
!
” Vince mimicked the killer. “The deadly shot.”

“Yes. So, the neighbors heard Stefani’s gun instead of the murder weapon. Maybe the guns were fired hours apart.” Even in the dim light, Cameron could see a slight grin flash across Amy’s face. “Or maybe we’re over-thinking this. Stefani’s watch could have been set wrong way before his death. Days even.”

“The Rolex? You’re right,” Vince said. “Those things don’t break so easily. I could understand if he fell from a tall building or something, but not five feet.”

“Okay,” Cameron said. “But where’s Stefani’s gun?”

Amy circled Stefani with her light. She checked under the couch, behind a bookshelf, and even under a large rug. No gun.

“I think I know where it is,” Vince said, moving towards the victim. “Move back. It’s under the body.”

“Nice try,” Amy said, pointing her flashlight up to the ceiling tiles to reveal a small hole punched into the styrofoam material. “It’s not under the body. It’s above it.”

Vince reached up and removed a second gun. “So, Stefani missed three times, got blasted by the killer...then what? The killer hid both guns?”

“Looks that way,” Amy said. “Hey, Cam. I want some detailed pictures where we found the gun.”

Amy loved making these kinds of discoveries. When she was only fifteen years old, she experienced something she would never forget. After a late night movie at a cheap seat theater, two of Amy’s friends were mugged. The thug stole her friends’ money and left them black and blue. Amy just barely escaped, but only because she ran a moment before the thug hit her friend. And as she ran, Amy only looked back once to see the face of the mugger. After the crime, the two friends never spoke to her. She’d left them in that alley to face the danger and humiliation alone. Worst of all, they knew she had been a coward. She wanted to prove them wrong.

Enough years passed so that Amy didn’t think she could identify the thug in a lineup. Her current reputation as a badass detective brought respect from others in her field, but few of them knew the truth about her past. Amy’s career choice had been fueled by more guilt than bravery.

Vince walked to the east wall. “Now, we’re not leaving here without one of those cute fish in a sack.” Then he saw something hanging just above the beat-up couch: a dartboard displaying several photographs of houses. Vince squinted and walked closer. “Hold on, Amy. You might want to see this.”

Amy joined Vince as they scrutinized the photos.

“Do these look familiar to you?” Vince asked.

Amy stepped closer, pulling one of the photos from the dartboard, holding it so gently; it almost slipped from her fingers. “These were the targets. These houses.”

“Son of a bitch.” Vince scratched the back of his head, and walked the perimeter of the pool table. “Then Stefani must have been the San Fran Bomber.”

“Vince, that’s quite the claim. I don’t know if we’re ready…”

“What more do you want, Amy? These photos tell the whole story! This man Stefani did it. He sent the bombs.”

“How do you know it wasn’t the other guy...Stefani’s killer? They could have been working together.” Amy tacked the photo back onto the dartboard. “Don’t get your hopes up, Vince.”

As Vince and Amy continued to study the main room, Cameron ventured off and returned with with frantic news. “Amy, those people weren’t the only targets. Stefani might have been planning something bigger.”

Vince whipped his head around. “Like what?”

“I’ll show you. Amy, give me your flashlight.”

Cameron led them down a dark, narrow hallway that extended from the main room. As they explored the passage, Vince started sneezing.

“Damn cats are gonna kill me.”

Just then, Amy stepped on a doll.

An electronic recording squealed from the eerie plaything.

“AAeeeeeeeh. Mmmaa ma.”

Vince smacked his head against the wall in a melodramatic jolt. “Great, Amy, let’s awaken the whole house of horrors while we’re here. Frickin’ genius.”

Amy kicked the doll out from underfoot, and a cat ran from the darkness between Cameron and Amy. Hissing, the cat clawed along the wall and flashed yellow eyes before darting out of sight. The team paused for a moment, listening to the clicking of the cat’s claws in a distant room.

“Let me guess,” Vince said. “The cat was the real mastermind.”

As the team approached the end of the hallway, the lights behind them flickered off in deadly succession, plunging the hallway into a satin blackness. Amy dropped her flashlight, but caught it just before it hit the ground.

They walked forward, feeling along the walls until they reached a thin door with a huge kitten poster plastered to it. Cameron pushed the door open and instructed Amy to shine her flashlight on the back wall. A thick layer of trash crunched underfoot as Amy led the way. The room reeked of stale gasoline and cigarettes. The stench had seeped into the carpet and wallpaper, causing a permanent odor that grew stronger as they walked into the room.

Countless red strings connected newspaper clippings, maps, pictures of weapons, and photos of mass destruction. It seemed as if the creator of the display had been studying terrorism at a morbid level. His fascination manifested itself in numerous articles on terrorist groups including recent bombings. Among the pictures were the same photos of the houses on the dartboard.

Amy punched Cameron in the shoulder. “Nice work, Cam.”

“Yeah, you weren’t kidding,” Vince said. “I thought this guy was just a car salesman. Wrong again.” He panned his flashlight across the black and white atrocities. “I’m just glad he didn’t plant a bomb in my car.”

*Click*  *Flash!*

A pile of boxes rested on a series of long tables to the left of the photo web. The other objects on the tables were shrouded in shadow until the flash from Cameron’s DSLR lit them up, causing a polarizing effect that left purple spots behind the eyes of the three team members. In the microseconds of light, Amy could see the dark remnants of Stefani’s work: organized stacks of wrapped explosives – C4 by the looks of it. The deadly devices were piled four columns high on a group of flattened cardboard, waiting to be boxed up. Mailing tape and box cutters were also among the stacks of explosives.

“Thank God we got here when we did,” Amy said. “It looks like he was ready to send another wave of attacks.”

Cameron snapped close-ups of the C4 packages. “Is Stefani some kind of spy?”

“What? Like an assassin?” Vince clacked his tongue. “Oh, that could be good. The Assassin of the Great Bay Area. No, no, no. The Golden Gate Assassin. Makes your blood boil.” Vince pointed his light into Cameron’s eyes. “Wow, Cam. I’m impressed. Not.” He whipped the light to Amy’s face. “You’re turn, Detective. Let’s summarize this thing and go home.”

“Vince…”

“Oh, I know. We’ve got the homicide of a man who knows his way around some news websites. No big deal. And he was probably posing as the San Fran Bomber. Oh, wait. Not posing. This evidence confirms h
e
wa
s
responsible for the bombings.”

Amy batted his flashlight out of her eyes. “Vince, you know it’s not that simple. We’re not done here. If Stefani was the bomber, he probably wasn’t working alone. Besides, knowing the identity of the bomber just creates more questions. Why was he targeting those people in particular? Did someone order him to follow through? Stefani may be dead, but his crimes didn’t die with him.”