Mourning of Angels

By Jayson Livingston

Sacramento County Sheriff's Detective Luke Masters is assigned one of the toughest cases in his career. He is tasked with the investigation into the murder of one of his own: Patrol Deputy Paul Stillhouse, killed on a lonely road in a rural section of the county. At first glance, things look straightforward - a young deputy killed because of drugs. But, as Luke and his partner, Wade Hayman, negotiate the many obstacles of the case, it takes one sinister turn after another. Can the detectives unravel the criminal web before more lives are lost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jayson Livingston
• Release date: Sep 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370111053

Book preview

PART ONE

THE EVIL THAT MEN DO

The love of evil is the root of all money.

— American Proverb

Man is the cruelest animal.

— Friedrich Nietzsche

CHAPTER ONE

1

It had been a quiet night in the dispatcher’s chair for Becky Joiner, punctuated by nearly a half-hour of radio silence. This was not unheard of during the overnight hours, but not common either. She sat at her terminal flirting with Deputy Jake Morgan over the computer. The only notable excitement came soon after her shift started. 56-Edward-1 called in a vehicle plate number that came back stolen. It looked like the vehicle would try to out run the deputy, but the driver decided to pull over, and the four occupants were taken into custody without incident. If that was all the excitement for South Patrol on an early fall night, it was a good night.

The past few weeks had been a meat grinder on the streets. The summer violence bled into the fall. Gangbangers in North and South Sacramento were at war and the collateral damage was extensive. Becky’s counterpart, who sat at the S-1 terminal and handled North Patrol, could attest to that.

Sherry McGregor dispatched North Patrol which had two shootings, a stabbing, and two armed robberies. It looked like it was North Patrol’s turn in the barrel.

South Patrol had the pleasure the past week. Becky occupied the graveyard S-2 chair all week, and she was looking forward to much needed days off. For now, the north area settled down enough that they were about to go to one channel operations. Sherry offered to take the helm, giving Becky a chance to catch up on her paperwork so she could get out of the office at a decent time.

Seventy-two-Adam-one, the voice of Paul Stillhouse said into the earphone.

Becky pushed a button and said, Go ahead, Seventy-two-Adam.

Seventy-two-Adam, I have a nine-seventeen-a westbound on Jackson Highway, about a quarter mile east of Meiss Road. Standby for plates. The radio keyed and Stillhouse said, No plates.

Seventy-two-Adam, copy. Becky checked the clock, it was 3:20 a.m. She typed the information into the computer, then looked to see if she had any units close by to cover Seventy-two-Adam. None from District Seven. She sent a message to a unit in District Five asking him to start for Jackson Highway. She got a quick reply. The unit would start, but he was a long way off.

As she checked the clock again, it was 3:22 a.m., the radio keyed in her ear, but no one spoke.

Last unit, repeat traffic, she said into her mic.

The radio keyed again, and there was a slight muffle this time.

Last unit, repeat your traffic.

Nothing.

3:24 a.m.

Seventy-two-Adam.

Nothing.

Becky was becoming alarmed. Seventy-two-Adam. She scanned the computer screen at the available units in District Seven. There still weren’t any. She keyed the radio. Seventy-three, Seventy-nine-Adam, I need you to clear and start for Jackson Highway, quarter mile east of Meiss Road.

Both units acknowledged, and one asked, What does he have?

Suspicious occupied vehicle, Becky said, then tried to reach Deputy Stillhouse again, Seventy-two-Adam.

Nothing.

She pulled up his cell number and dialed it. Come on, pick up, she whispered. Pick up and tell me things are okay.

The phone rang and rang then went to voicemail.

Two more District Seven units advised that they were heading toward Jackson Highway. Three District Five units also advised that they were heading in that direction.

She checked the clock.

3:26 a.m.

Fifty-nine-Adam on Jackson Highway.

Fifty-nine, copy. Becky wanted to breathe easier knowing that there was a unit close by, but didn’t.

She dialed the cell number again, and, again, it rang until voicemail picked up.

Seventy-two-Adam.

Nothing.

Fifty-nine and Fifty-one-Adam are in the area.

Fifty-nine, copy.

3:28 a.m.

Fifty-nine, you said he was on Jackson Highway, just east of Meiss?

Fifty-nine, affirm. Said that the nine-seventeen-a was about a quarter mile east of Meiss.

Fifty-nine, copy. I don’t see him.

A unit keyed the mic, Bob, take Meiss Road and follow it past The Jackson Steakhouse.

Copy.

3:30 a.m.

Other units advised that they, too, were in the area.

3:31 a.m.

3:32 a.m.

Then finally, Got him On Meiss at Jackson Highway…Officer down! Officer down!

Becky’s heart sank.

Code three ambulance! someone yelled into the radio.

Um… a unit broke his transmission. Oh Christ. We need help out here!

Becky wanted to cry. She swallowed hard and continued dispatching units and lining up names to call.

Everyone’s worst fears came to light. An officer was down, and Becky knew in her heart that Paul Stillhouse was dead.

She wiped tears from her eyes and grabbed the hotline to Sacramento Metro Fire Department dispatch.

CHAPTER TWO

1

Detective Luke Masters headed south on Sunrise Boulevard, speedometer pegged at ninety. He checked the dashboard clock, 4:25 a.m. Luke received the call from his sergeant at 3:50 a.m. A deputy was shot and pronounced dead at the scene. Sergeant John McGinnely told him that all but two homicide teams were called out, a basic ‘all hands on deck’ situation. With an officer down, the brass would crawl around the crime scene like roaches.

The homicide squad for the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department comprised eight two-man teams. In rotation, each team would be on call for a week, making it once every two months that each specific team would catch the dreaded ‘on call’.

You and Wade are primary, McGinnely said. Peaches and Momo got a call out just after midnight, and Lars and Franklin took the next call that came in a half hour later.

So, the on call team had been called out earlier in the night, and when the second homicide came in, the back-up on call team, the next team in rotation, was called out. This meant that it was Luke and Wade’s turn. It seemed the busy summer months in homicide would continue into fall.

A little over four years ago when Luke was a rookie homicide detective, the squad consisted of four two-man teams. The unit was so buried in cases that McGinnely pleaded with the powers that be to increase the number of detectives in the unit. Luke thought they might add two more detectives, if they were lucky. When the brass handed the unit eight more detectives and a second sergeant three years ago, there was hope the unit might see daylight.

Fat chance! The homicide count in the county continued to climb. The summer months in each of the past two years were exceptionally grueling.

It seemed the homicides in the county doubled when the unit doubled.

Luke thought about McGinnley’s words. Pronounced dead at the scene. That told Luke it was bad. He’d been on scene of two of the last three officer involved shootings where the officer was killed. Luke knew the deputy was dead at each of the scenes, yet they transported the deputies to the UC Davis Medical Center. The third shooting, Luke learned, the deputy hadn’t been transported. He was a young narcotics cop killed while trying to make a dope buy; his face was erased with a sawed-off shotgun.

Luke tried to shake off the memories.

The paramedics pronounced Deputy Stillhouse at the scene. There must have been no doubt the deputy was dead. McGinnely hadn’t given Luke much on the phone. Which meant he didn’t have much to give. The deputy’s name was Paul Stillhouse. Know him? McGinnely asked.

The name wasn’t familiar to Luke. No.

After Luke hung up with McGinnely, he jumped in the shower to wash away the cobwebs, threw on a pair of jeans, polo shirt, and a black Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department baseball cap, and headed out the door. The body of Deputy Stillhouse was found approximately sixty minutes ago.

Officers killed in the line of duty in Sacramento was a rare occurrence. In the past ten years, the Sacramento Police Department lost two officers, and the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department lost three. The last deputy killed in the county was in 2010, before Luke transferred to homicide while he was working in the warrant detail. A young gang force deputy was killed while the Gang Enforcement Detail made a sweep of an apartment complex in South Sacramento County, shot in the head as he entered a supposed empty unit. The task force requested the warrant team’s help and Luke was only a few feet away when Bobby Martinez was shot. The suspect was shot by Bobby’s partner, who screamed and fired until the slide on his gun locked. It was a blood-soaked nightmare.

Luke’s cell phone rang, snapping him out of the horrid memories. It was his partner. He punched the green button, Yo?

What the hell? Wade Hayman said.

You know what I know. Luke said. I don’t know Stillhouse, though.

If it’s who I think it is, he was working out at the branch jail not six months ago.

Luke groaned, a rookie patrol officer. You meet him?

At the gun range. He was qualifying next to me. We talked about guns. I was shooting my H&K P-Seven. He got all warm and fuzzy inside when I let him shoot it.

Where are you now? Luke asked.

On Highway Fifty passing Hazel.

I’m almost ninety-seven. I’ll see you there. Luke disconnected, tossed the phone on the passenger’s seat, and shook his head. If Paul Stillhouse worked the branch jail six months ago, that meant he was barely off patrol training. This would be tough on the administration. A rookie died in the line of duty; someone would eat shit on this.

The department had also seen its share of scandals in recent months. There’d been abuse allegations at the main jail, and two different sexual misconduct cases were pending, not to mention the out of control homicide rate. The local media hadn’t been too kind to the department.

The bitch of a year in homicide started New Year’s Day with a triple homicide. With an unacceptable thirty-five homicides by early July, the year showed no signs of slowing. Three months to go in the year, and the homicide numbers swelled to forty-eight and the media smelled blood — the department’s blood — and they were ready to pounce. Forty-eight homicides by the end of September was off the chain.

Luke frowned. Make that forty-nine.

And if things weren’t bad enough for the sixteen men and women of the homicide unit, everything would be put on hold, with all the homicide resources directed to their fellow officer’s murder. The two teams that were called out earlier in the night would work their cases like normal, and the minute things cooled down, they’d be pushed over to assist on Deputy Stillhouse’s shooting.

Now on Jackson Highway, Luke headed east. As he passed Sloughhouse Road, the many red and blue emergency flashers lit up the night like carnival lights. Units stretched across the highway and flares were set up. Luke pulled to the side of the road about four-hundred yards from Meiss Road. Yellow Mylar crime scene tape was stretched around in a large perimeter. He popped the trunk and stepped into the unseasonably balmy early morning air. Luke retrieved a flashlight, rubber gloves, small camera, notepad and a Samsung tablet from the trunk. He tucked the tablet and notepad under his arm as he found a place for all items and started his walk. At the crime scene tape a deputy stood holding a clipboard.

Masters, Homicide, two-two-six.

The deputy nodded and wrote the information on the log sheet. Luke ducked under the tape and continued his walk.

With an inner perimeter established, more crime scene tape stretched across the road. Several deputies milled around outside the inner perimeter, while a few stood just inside the perimeter. As Luke stepped under the tape, he saw the patrol car sitting on the shoulder of the road. The driver’s door and back left door were open, and the body of Paul Stillhouse lay face down near the left rear tire.

Two deputies stood near Stillhouse. As Luke walked closer, he bristled. Sergeant Roy Kellog and Lieutenant Jim Conway, both were assigned to patrol and had no business standing deep in the crime scene.

It was Luke’s crime scene. Even the sheriff himself wasn’t welcome to just walk into the inner perimeter of a crime scene. Luke really couldn’t stop anyone who out ranked him, including Sergeant Kellog or Lieutenant Conway. Luke encountered this before: brass wanting to be a part of the crime scene. When Luke asked them to leave, they did. This was different.

Luke walked up and said, Gentlemen, can I ask you to step out of the crime scene, please?

You can ask, but we’re staying, Sergeant Kellog said.

Luke didn’t like Roy Kellog. He was a bully and a know-it-all. Luke nodded and said, Then let me put it to you this way. I’m not asking, I’m telling you to get out of my crime scene.

Kellog turned to Luke, nostrils flaring. Listen, hotshot! This was my man, and I’ll be here the whole time, and there isn’t a fucking thing you can do about it! Got it? That’s what I thought.

This was a first, and though he had no authority, Luke wasn’t about to be pushed around by the likes of Roy Kellog. He stepped closer to the sergeant and in a low voice said, Listen, Kellog. Either you step away from my crime scene or I will drag you by your ear to the nearest patrol car, handcuff you, and throw you in the back. So help me God, I’ll do it in front of all your men. Luke turned away from Kellog and to Lieutenant Conway. You know the policies, Lieutenant. If Jesus himself were to float down from the heavens and want to walk into the crime scene, he’d have to clear it with me. And, guess what? I’d tell him no. Now, please, both of you, behind the yellow tape.

Conway studied Luke for a long moment, saw the darkness in the detective’s eyes, and said, Come on, Roy.

But…

Out of Detective Masters’ crime scene, Conway said with a hint of contempt.

Sergeant Kellog stared at Luke, then sighed. I want to know about every move you make on this.

Not gonna happen, Kellog.

Kellog huffed for a minute, about to say something, but turned and quickly walked toward the yellow tape.

Luke shook his head and turned his attention to the body. He now understood why Paul Stillhouse hadn’t been transported to the hospital. The top of his head was pulp. It looked like a pomegranate exploded. Most of his jaw was missing. The amount of blood was obscene. The paramedics who pronounced Stillhouse hadn’t bothered to turn the body. Luke stepped back and, with his digital camera, took a series of pictures.

He studied the scene for a few minutes, soaking up the entire area. It was then he realized the deputy’s gun wasn’t in its holster. He dropped to one knee and looked under the patrol car. No gun.

Back at the yellow tape, Luke scanned the area for Sergeant Kellog. He spotted him, swung under the tape, and walked up to him. Did you or one of your crew pick up the deputy’s weapon?

His name was Paul Stillhouse.

Luke took a deep breath. Did you or anyone else pick up Deputy Stillhouse’s weapon?

No.

Then where is it?

Kellog’s eyes flashed in a moment of panic. Obviously, he hadn’t realized that Stillhouse’s weapon was missing. He stared at Luke for a long moment. I don’t know.

Luke said nothing. He turned and walked back to Stillhouse’s unit, then circled the vehicle. He scanned the dirt and ivy to the left. No gun.

The crowd had grown twofold since Luke’s arrival, and they weren’t civilian rubberneckers. They were cops, brass of all ranks, DA investigators, line deputies, all curious about how one of their own had been gunned down in an area not known for a high crime rate. He sighed and started for the tape. He needed to back out and wait for his partner and CSI.

Luke saw a friendly face in the crowd of cops and motioned him over to the tape.

Sergeant Brian Blackwell was assigned to District Five Patrol and there was none better.

Hey Luke, Brian said, shaking the detective’s hand. Glad you caught this one.

How fast did you get here?

I was with my deputies when they went ninety-seven. We couldn’t find Stillhouse’s unit.

What do you mean?

He radioed in a nine-seventeen-a, quarter mile past Meiss Road on Jackson Highway. When we got there, his unit wasn’t there. Bob Brody found it here.

Hmm. Luke looked toward Jackson Highway. Meiss has two entrances to Jackson Highway?

Right. But the second entrance to Jackson Highway is a locked gate. Studdard Farms.

Luke nodded. Right, right.

I had Bob drive down Meiss. When he got to the Y, he went left, Blackwell motioned to the carnage, and here it was.

Luke walked toward Stillhouse’s unit, Blackwell in tow. Wonder if the vehicle Stillhouse was checking on moved from Jackson Highway to here?

Maybe.

What kind of vehicle? Luke asked.

White van. No plates.

Luke nodded. What about his weapon?

Blackwell shrugged. We haven’t found it. I knew the kid was dead when I walked up to him. We called fire anyway. They started to roll him, and I told them not to. The sergeant looked down at the ground. Jesus.

You did right, Bri. He was dead before he hit the ground. You also preserved the crime scene, and that’s the best thing we can do for him now.

Blackwell nodded. That Kellog, I told him to get out of the crime scene, but he told me to piss off. Then Conway just waltzed in. Wasn’t Conway a homicide sergeant at one time?

Luke nodded. But he wasn’t any good.

Blackwell forced a smile.

CSI here yet? I didn’t see them when I arrived.

Yeah. Witter is here somewhere.

Luke nodded. Okay, Bri, I’ll come see you in a bit.

Brian Blackwell patted Luke on the shoulder and headed out of the crime scene.

Luke turned to the patrol car and wondered if Deputy Stillhouse pulled in behind the van on Jackson Highway, and then the van drove onto Meiss.

Stillhouse’s unit was parked just east of the fork in the road, heading east. Luke walked up to Jackson Highway, looking along the shoulder of the road on the east bound side. He was about an eighth of a mile from the second entrance to Meiss. He nodded, figured Stillhouse pulled in behind the van on Jackson Highway, then the van pulled off the highway and stopped on Meiss. Stillhouse would not have been suspicious at the time, for Jackson Highway was narrow, two lanes with deep trenches on either side, and could be a dangerous road. In the middle of the night, a citizen might want to pull off for his and the officer’s safety.

Luke shrugged and walked back to Meiss Road just as his partner arrived.

Wade Hayman spoke with the patrol deputy who held the clipboard, dipped under the crime scene tape, and walked toward Luke. He approached the body, cringed and said, Christ, yeah, that’s the same kid I met at the range.

Luke briefed Wade, then added, Kellog and Conway were standing about ten feet from the body when I got here.

Kellog. What a tool. You shoo them out?

Kellog griefed me, but yeah.

Luke’s cell rang. He looked at Wade and rolled his eyes. It’s already starting.

Luke expected to be called no less than twenty times in the next couple hours. Brass of all ranks would be calling to check on the progress. He suspected some would be calling from the crime scene, because they were so far back they couldn’t see the happenings.

Luke looked at his screen and said to Wade, It’s Momo. he answered the phone, Heya Momo.

Whatcha got out there, Luke?

Detective Moe Charles was one of the on call detectives this week.

A mess, Momo. Deputy shot in the head, dead at the scene. We’ve just started setting up.

Momo groaned. Stillhouse is the name?

Yeah. Youngster just off of patrol training.

Oh man. Someone is gonna eat shit on this one. He paused for a second, said something to someone on his end, then, Be expecting calls. I’ve gotten five calls in the past ten minutes. All brass. They must have pulled the duty roster, saw me and Peaches were on call, and started calling. I’ve been telling them we were called out on a gang shooting earlier and that you and Wade are the primaries on Stillhouse.

Thanks for the heads up, Momo. I’ve been expecting the calls to come raining in any minute.

Our case is gonna dry up fast. Every witness is about as uncooperative as can be. When we get caught up, I’ll call and see what you need.

Thanks, Momo.

Luke hung up and looked at his partner, then at the gathering crowd, then at the body of Deputy Stillhouse.

This has goatfuck written all over it.

2

The sun was lighting the sky to the east, black turning to a deep gray, then to sherbert orange with a few high clouds adding to the beauty of the sunrise. The temperature stayed in the high sixties during the overnight hours, which meant it would be another hot Indian summer day.

Luke’s cell phone rang no less than twelve times since Momo called with the heads up. All the brass stayed clear of the crime scene as word rippled through the rank and file about Luke’s run-in with Sergeant Kellog. No one wanted to be embarrassed like that. They would give Luke and Wade plenty of breathing room. But, that didn’t stop them from calling Luke, asking questions, and generally being a pain in the ass.

Luckily, Luke and Wade were isolated inside the crime scene. The media set up shop beyond the tape, and no doubt traffic was becoming angry with the closure of Jackson Highway, a major thoroughfare for foothill commuters to Sacramento.

Two more detectives arrived and joined Luke and Wade near the patrol car.

Detectives Dewey Hobson and Jake McClurg were senior detectives and two of the best men Luke had ever worked with. They were sharp, hard-working men, and each with a sense of humor that rivaled