Chapter 2: Wasted Afternoon

Chapter 2: Wasted Afternoon

It was late in the afternoon when Baker finally got back to the station. He slumped down in the old desk chair he had used for the last fifteen years, and sighed. He had just wasted most of the morning and part of the afternoon sitting around in a room waiting to be called as a witness in a murder trial. The defense had raised some kind of legal problem and proceeded to spend a few hours in a three-way argument between them, the prosecutor and the judge. Net result: Baker was never called. Maybe tomorrow, they told him.

There were times when he had little patience for the legal system and its confusing, often illogical details, especially when one of those details got a perp off scot free. He had seen that happen a few too many times. Spend days, weeks, even months building up an airtight case against someone you know is guilty as sin, then have it all blown away by some technicality and the perp walks.

The best he could do was hope that this would not be one of those cases. Connor shot his wife in cold blood. Baker had helped gather evidence and was in on the collar. Now some kid fresh out of fancy, expensive law school was trying to pick holes in that evidence and get this scumbag freed. It did not settle well on Baker’s stomach. Or maybe that was just the chili dog he had for lunch.

He looked over towards the coffee urn and wondered if it was worth getting up for a cup. Deciding that he was drinking too much coffee, he turned to the pile of paperwork in the in-basket. That was another thing he hated about being a detective: the paperwork. Why could he not simply go out there and do his work of cleaning the scum off the streets? Heaven knows there was enough of it: drug pushers, scam artists, car chop shops, street gangs – the list was endless.

“You look tired.”

“I feel tired,” he told Lane, who had just come up with a folder in his hands. “I just wasted a whole god-damned afternoon and was never called. If Connor walks, I’m going to resign – so help me!” He muttered a few words under his breath that sounded like: “Then I’m going to kill the bastard.”

“You won’t quit. I’ve heard you say that a hundred times.”

Baker sighed. “You think we’re really doing any good?” he asked.

“Sure we are. If it were not for us, there would be anarchy out on the streets.”

“You sure there isn’t now? The damned gangs outnumber us by ten to one, and are better armed. You hear about those full automatic weapons picked up on the south side a couple days ago? Two crates full of AN-94 Nikonov Assault Rifles and a few AK47’s thrown in for good measure. In this wonderful paradise on the Pacific Ocean, we average two murders a day. Two every day! And that rate is growing. Car thief, home burglaries, assault, any crime you would care to mention is on the rise. And then there is this Japanese bastard going around slicing up young girls.”

“Now, no preconceived notions,” Lane said sternly but with a faint smile. “We don’t know it was a Japanese who did it.”

Baker sighed again, finally saying, “You’re right. We don’t know that.” He took a deep breath, braced himself, and asked, “Well, what do we know? Got an ID yet? Any similar MO?”

Lane sat in the side chair and opened the folder.

“Victim was Lacy Buchanan. Coed at the UCLA. Final year. Age 21. No record. Clean living, all American girl. Went to church, sang in the choir, got very good grades. Coroner says there was no indication of rape prior to death. There were bruises on the wrists and ankles indicating that she was handcuffed and struggling more than just a few minutes before dying. No other wounds beyond the big slash. Cause of death, massive bleeding through the abdomen.

“Lab says that there are no prints on the handcuffs. They are a cheap Japanese brand, available at many magic shops, war-surplus stores, the Internet, etc. No serial number on them, of course.”

“Japanese?” Baker interrupted.

“Hell, you’re a cop! Unless you go to a uniform supply store and buy Smith and Wesson or Peerless, most of the handcuffs available to the general public are made in Japan. Or maybe China. I think China is getting in on that business; they are making almost everything else.”

“So there’s really no chance of tracing them?”

“None. They’re popular with the B&D crowd and there are probably thousands of them sold every year in a city this size. Or online.”

“Wonderful…”

Lane went on. “I did a cross check on the MO.” He turned over a page. “There was one guy in New York who did it to his wife. But he also slit her throat because she wasn’t dying fast enough. Anyway, he is in prison awaiting execution. Has been for five – no, eight years now.”

Both cops frowned. The automatic appeal process meant that it could take ten years before a convicted murder was actually given the lethal injection. More, if he had money to buy a good lawyer. Hell, he had one guy he had caught who was enjoying room and board and medical care at public expense for thirteen years now with no end in sight.

Lane went on, “There was a couple cases of it in Hawaii, but then they have a big Japanese population there. The perps in those cases were all older men and have since passed away.”

“So we have no prior MO to go on.”

“Right.”

For a while they simply looked at each other. “Guess we talk to her parents and friends. Standard procedure. You want to take that? I’m going to be in court tomorrow morning.”

“Again? Sure. I love talking to the parents of murder victims.”

“Use your college training. You had courses in psychology, right?”

“Right. One whole course, and we didn’t spend much time on grieving families.”

“And find out if she had a Japanese boyfriend,” Baker added.

“Sure.”