“Oh, speaking of, I was out in West Compton meeting up with a CI by the old cemetery. Don’t know if you guys have heard or not, but that girl that was found in the playground was buried out there this morning.”
“I was told the other day that it would be today,” DeLaRue responded. “Would have liked to have gone and paid my respects.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Mitchell said. “Pretty sad when you really think about it.”
“I try not to think about it anymore.” Dawson said, as he took a drink of his tea. The string from the bag with the maker's tag attached swung as it hung over the edge of his cup.
“Anyone show up for the poor kid?” Frank asked.
“Only some guy and a girl. Funny thing, they brought their damn dog with them.”
Earlier that morning, while Eugene Mitchell was meeting his confidential informant, there was a cold drizzly rain falling. Jennifer Winkles and Genghis Khan huddled close to either side of Jeff Trent, shielding themselves under the umbrella he was holding. The priest made the sign of the cross over the open grave that held a simple wooden casket. He then looked skyward. “Because God has chosen to call our sister Trisha from this life to Himself, we commit her body to the earth . . .” Jennifer quietly sobbed, while Genghis and Trent thought that this wouldn’t be the last victim of Prodor Moffit.
The cemetery was located in the far west corner of the Compton Square district of Old Town. It was a potter’s field, the last stop for the homeless and indigent; all of them with no family to claim their remains. At the conclusion of the service, Jeff shook the priest’s hand and thanked him. Jennifer bent down and grabbed a handful of wet dirt and tossed it onto the casket and said her final goodbye to her friend Trisha. Then, the three walked back to the cruiser without a word and headed home.
“Why anyone would bring a dog to a funeral is beyond me.” Eugene Mitchell said, as he finished his coffee.
“Not all that unusual,” Frank said. “A lot of people see their dogs as actual family members.”
“I guess so, seemed like the only family she had,” Eugene said, as he tossed his empty cup into the trash. “It was pretty much just a simple service, real quick. After that, the three of them got into this sweet old Ford and drove off.”
Dawson DeLaRue looked up from his cup. “A white Ford?”
“Yeah!"
“Was it a Thunderbird?” Frank added.
“Yeah, how’d you guys know?”
Dawson looked over to Frank, then to Mitchell. “Was it a 1959 Thunderbird?”
“Oh, couldn’t tell you the year, Lieutenant, but it was a Ford Thunderbird. Not the kind Suzanne Somers drove in American Graffiti, but one of the big battleship Birds.
Fifteen minutes later, as Dawson and Frank were in the elevator heading down to the third floor, Dawson said, “Frank?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant?”
“Why was that ‘59 Ford at my crime scene? Then that very same Ford at the funeral for the victim?” The elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open.
“Yeah I know. But, it doesn’t make sense. The guy whacks our vic, then brings the family to her funeral. Just doesn't add up, Lieutenant.”
They continued to walk the expanse of the floor where cubicles of police officers were busy at their desks. “Frank, what’s my number one rule on coincidences?”
“Ah . . . your number one rule on coincidences?”
“Yeah! My number one rule on coincidences.”
“Oh, that rule! That there’s no such thing as coincidences.”
DeLaRue stopped at his open office door and turned to face McVie. “Exactly! Frank, would you do me a favor? Put out a BOLO on that Ford. I don’t want him stopped or detained unless it’s necessary, but I do want to know what he does when he comes into town.”
About the time Frank McVie was putting out the Be On the Lookout for the white 1959 Ford Thunderbird, William “Billy Bourbon” Jamerson was parking his Buick Skylark at the curb overlooking Grant Park. He got out and started the five minute trek deep into the park to the large oak tree to meet Bollar. Bollar was standing under the tree waiting for him. “Mr. Bourbon, on time as usual.”
“Will you quit that Mr. Bourbon shit? It’s Billy, just Billy.”
“Very well, Billy. I want to apologize for my friend's behavior.” Bollar handed Billy a white envelope. “And apologize for not letting you know his true profession.”
“Well, Bollar, if I had known that up front I would have taken different precautions.” He looked into the envelope and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, I doubled what I was going to pay you. Let’s just say it’s for the inconvenience.”
Billy broke out into a big gold grin. “Well, I do thank yah for that, Mr. Bollar.” He slipped the envelope into his back pocket. “Will you be okay without my help? You seem to be getting around just fine now.”
“Yes, I am doing much better, but will always carry the scars of this town.” Bollar stepped beside Billy and they both looked out upon the vast park. “Which is why I’ll be moving on.”
“Where you headin'?” Billy asked.
“Oh, probably north. But before I leave, I’ll have to tie up some loose ends here.” Bollar calmly looked around the park for any joggers or hikers. The park was empty. He then removed his IPF survival knife, reached over, and plunged it deep into the left side of Billy’s abdomen. Bollar quickly drew the knife across Billy’s waist, easily slicing through his thick winter coat, then pulled it out.
Billy was stunned for a moment and wondered what was spilling onto his shoes. A searing pain started to rise. He began to
