The Glass Tiger

By Mark C Brown

A young professional boxer of Italian decent finds himself into trouble with the law after several murders. His ex-wife has a suspicion of him being responsible for these murders because of her own experience with him. After a full investigation she finds out it is not him. Now she has to prove his inocence after the indictment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark C Brown
• Release date: Apr 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988016712

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The GLASS TIGER

Mark C. Brown

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Published by:

Mark C. Brown at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2012 by Mark C. Brown

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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CHAPTER ONE

LOS ANGELESS CALIFORNIA.

The upstairs police station was ceaselessly blustering in a cacophony of yelling and laughing, muffed by resounding office machines trying relentlessly to bury one another. Most people numbly operated without noticing its provenance. Phones constantly ringing, doors consistently closing. The droning of a hive. A police enforcement hive. It’s daily business.

Lieutenant Jackson was used to it, part of it for thirty years. Twenty men under his command, twenty tough, unyielding men and he had to be tougher. His job, his responsibility. All this for forty six five a year. Never been worth it, never would be.

Behind his desk, surrounded by thin glass, a place where he would receive official papers, received orders from the D.A, but mostly giving orders, dispatched commands and suspends officers, all on the same day.

Today wouldn’t be any different. His action came from the streets, officers on the beat. They would scoop up the dirt and he would solve it, find the culprits. Messier? Angel of justice? Or better still, a maintenance man for the victims of people who didn’t give a dam. Today wouldn’t be any different. The statistics showed that he would receive five phone calls from his officers on the streets. Two would be transferred to another department, three would land on his laps, and only one would get solved.

Lieutenant Ted Jackson here. He answered for the first time today.

A call from the streets. A neighbor of a young woman called saying there was trouble in the apartment next door. Trouble all right. A young girl beaten to death. Purple, from head to toe. Purple as a squash, the officer said. Not a pretty sight.

Lieutenant Jackson asked Rodriguez to come along with him. He had the experience. Another belonging to a minority who became the majority in this police force.

A posh place for such a young girl they thought when they entered the apartment on the seventh floor. Expensive furniture for such a young tenant. In her twenties, living like in her forties. Now dead.

The officer was right. She barely had any original color left. A myriad of crimson blood scattered on mauve satin sheets and a dark purple nude tortuous female body lying with her eyes wide opened, still begging for mercy. A horrifying sight. Who was she?

The officer came up with some ID, Claire Redgrave, and twenty three years of age. Too young to die. Nothing missing in the apartment, only some orderliness. There was a fight, a fight to the death. She was tied down to the bedpost with some linen, traces of fighting back, traces of despair, of hopelessness.

How come people who seemed to have everything managed to get into so much trouble? He asked himself while looking around for some clues. Young, beautiful, couple bucks to spare, so it seemed and with a name like Redgrave, it sounded she came from a nice family.

Can I call the paramedic now lieutenant? Ask an officer in uniform. Yeah, go ahead. She won’t talk.

The forensic department would tell more about her than she knew about herself.

A quarrel, a lover’s quarrel, said Rodriguez to Jackson while some guy from the forensic department was taking some pictures.

Obviously they didn’t agree on something. Jackson said. A sarcastic drollerie which didn’t make Rodriguez sneered. He heard it before.

Both officers drove back to the station thinking that, this case might be one of the three that wouldn’t get solved. Rodriguez would lead the investigation. He knew what to look for, questions to ask, and particularly the ones not to ask.

There was no hurry. Rodriguez would have to wait for the reports before beginning his investigation, giving him a chance to wrap up the one he was working on.

The neighbor who called said it happened before. This girl was accustomed of receiving random beatings, like she said. Do you ever get use of getting beaten? Rodriguez asked himself.

She had a lover, someone secret, someone rich. Pulled in a stretched dark limo, chauffeur waited for a couple of hours, then drove off; incognito. It lasted weeks. Not months.

There were thousands of stretched limos in town, from Orange to Beverly Hills. Not a good lead. He was a young man, the neighbor said, judged by his haste when moving about. Almost ran up the stairs, in a hurry. That would eliminate the senator and that was all.

The report showed; Claire Redgrave, twenty three years old, five six, one hundred ten pounds, brunette. Parents living in Denver. Been here three years since she was twenty.

A little young to live the kind of life she was living. Nice flat, nice sport car, expensive clothing. Maybe he paid everything? Thought he had the right to beat her up too, part of the package, thought Rodriguez. Lieutenant Ted Jackson called her parents; they were flying down to identify the body. Maria! Jackson yelled from his office.

Yeah. Peeping through the door.

I want you on this case with Francisco. Go and take a look at the apartment again with him. You might find some woman thing we wouldn’t. Right chief.

Marie Sanchez was still a uniform officer, but she had the sniff of a detective.

Crossing the yellow tape, Maria senses were on like a Doberman sniffing a small prey. Jackson was right to bring a woman in the case thought Rodriguez; a speck of an eyelash could be useful. They combed the place in and out. Nothing.

A meeting was called with Rodriguez and Sanchez in Jackson’s office to see if a brainstorming session would bring out a lead. What’s the score on the limo? Jackson asked.

We’re breaking down the list, a list of twenty five hundred. It’s going to take some time.

Maria?

She told that the victim wasn’t working, living off her grandfather’s heritage of a few hundred thousand dollars. Spending it gradually. She figured she was spending seventy five thousand a year. Lots of money for a twenty three year old, she added. Lots of money for anyone, Jackson thought. So, this guy was not the provider. How come an independent girl like that, well brought up and all, doing with a creep like this, Jackson asked aloud? A rhetorical question nobody would answer.

The lab had obtained a sperm specimen from the victim. The DNA was available. All they needed was a match. Evidence showed that it was a fisticuff, no weapons or straps or traces of using any other gadget were visible on the body. With all the multiple fractures and lacerations, he didn’t need a weapon.

Two weeks elapsed without any substantial elements. The case almost petered out. If no new leads were found within the following weeks, the statistics proved that the case would be close without anybody being accused. Dead end.

Jackson received a call from the beat. A young woman was found in an alley, severely beaten and rushed out to the hospital. She lay in the county hospital after spending more than three hours in the emergency ward. Her purse was next to her at the time. Debby Schaffer, age twenty two. Beaten beyond recognition. She wouldn’t be able to speak for days if not weeks. Lieutenant Ted Jackson left only with a name.

There wasn’t much on Debby Schaffer. Part time manicurist, part time hairdresser, working in a salon downtown. Little income, little apartment. Beaten by someone’s fist. One broken jaw, two ribs, one dislocated shoulder. Parent’s unknown. One sister which didn’t know anything.

One week later at the hospital.

Miss Schaffer! Can you hear me? I’m Lieutenant Ted Jackson from the Orange County police department. I have to ask you a few questions.

Gradually opening her eyes to see a silhouette of a man bowed near her bed. The grave voice was one of a black man. That’s all she could decipher. She was alive. For a while she thought she was dead. She closed her eyes again.

She was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy, only partially exposed.

Miss Schaffer, I have to ask you how you got this way, who beat you up?

Her lips opened to let out the tip of her tongue moistening her parched lips. Turned her head tediously on the other side. No answer.

I’ll be back later. Bobbing her on the forearm.

He would send Maria Sanchez. Among women, perhaps she would talk, he thought.

Lieutenant Jackson was in his office meddling through some papers when she popped in.

So! Got something out of her?

Not a whisper. She won’t talk at all. Maria replied.

Don’t tell me she’s protecting that creep. I don’t believe it.

Afraid so.

That wasn’t good. There was a possible link between Claire Redgrave and her, both beaten to a pulse. One barely pulsing, one not all.

I’ll give a try tomorrow. Jackson replied, swaying his head in discouragement.

The next day the victim seemed more alert than the previous time. A good sign. He came in languidly near the bed not to scare her. Gentleness mandatory. He didn’t want to introduce himself again, making things friendlier.

How are you feeling?

Her