The Grocery Sack Killer

By Mary Base and Lynn Bain

The Grocery Sack Killer is a novel loosely based on the true story of Spokane’s Serial Killer, Robert Lee Yates. Porterville Police Detective Sergeant Magnum Schultz, back in uniform, prefers working graveyard shifts during summer months because she doesn’t have to contend with July’s stupefying daytime heat. She’s patrolling the dark streets in her cruiser when she locates a murdered girl.
The teenage prostitute has been strangled, plastic grocery sacks placed over her head, and shot in the back of the skull with a small caliber handgun.

In the meantime, Bounty Hunter George Rooney has been reunited with his adult daughter, Tanya, a junior partner at a local law firm, when he receives a threatening phone call warning him not to come looking for the caller. Tanya suggests that the caller may be her ex-husband who has jumped bond on an embezzlement charge. Since Tanya posted the $5,000 bond to get her ex bailed out of jail, Rooney is determined to get her money back for her and hopefully have a little left over for his own living expenses.

In the course of hunting for his no-good ex-son-in-law, Rooney encounters blond, blue-eyed Marisa, the ex-husband’s most recent girlfriend, a prostitute who tries to convince Rooney that she’s a Reiki instructor and not a hooker. Much to his own surprise, Rooney takes a liking to Marisa’s two young sons and gets involved with her, himself.

When more prostitutes begin to turn up dead, Magnum goes undercover in an attempt to identify the killer. She and Rooney have run-ins as her search for the killer and his search for his daughter’s ex-husband cross paths.
Finally, there is a break in the case, but two suspects are taken into custody. Magnum’s work is cut out for her as she attempts to discover the real grocery sack killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Base
• Release date: Nov 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370386956

Mary Base

I was raised til age 15 on a farm in Central Idaho. My dad was a Czech immigrant and my mom was an Oklahoma City business woman. I graduated from Gonzaga University in 1968 with a B.A. in English.In the days before women routinely became street cops, I'd read a book about a woman who did that and decided that was for me. Beginning in 1981 I worked for 21 years as a police officer, first in Davenport then in Cheney, Washington .In 2002 I hung up my gun belt and went back to school for a BA in Education so I could teach Criminal Justice at Lewis & Clark High School in Spokane. After three years of that, I decided that the public school system and I were not going to see eye-to-eye, so hung up my lazer-pointer and turned my attention to the martial arts school I'd established in 1998.I'd studied marial arts since 1974 and, over the course of 34 years, earned a 4th degree black belt in Goju-ryu Karate. But I'd also, with my husband, team-taught women's self-defense based on the well-known "Model Mugging" system.Since I'd first been able to put words to paper, I'd aspired to be a writer. So, here I am.

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The Grocery Sack Killer

A Magnum Schultz Mystery Novel

By Mary Baše and Lynn Bain

Copyright 2016 Mary Baše and Lynn Bain

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image by Fernando Quevedo

*****

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied, scanned or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without permission from the authors.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer, where they can also discover other works by Mary and Lynn.

*****

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 -- First Victim

Chapter 2 -- Dirt Bags

Chapter 3 – Sad Find

Chapter 4 – Bounty Hunter and His Daughter

Chapter 5 -- Rooney Meets the Marchands

Chapter 6 – Marisa Makes her Case

Chapter 7 – First Victim Identified

Chapter 8 – Death Notice

Chapter 9 – Paul Truman and the Graveyard Cops

Chapter 10 – The Hookup

Chapter 11 –Tanya Again

Chapter 12 – Second Victim

Chapter 13 –Working Girls

Chapter 14 – Jordan Goes Under

Chapter 15 – Rooney on the Hunt

Chapter 16 – Commandeered

Chapter 17 – Out of Gas

Chapter 18 – Rick and Carlin on the Farm

Chapter 19 – The Making of a Killer

Chapter 20 – The Serving Tray

Chapter 21 – Third Victim

Chapter 22 – McIntyre Law Office

Chapter 23 – Curt Reardon and the Used Car Lot

Chapter 24 – County’s Case

Chapter 25 – Rick’s Recollection

Chapter 26 – Rooney’s Lost Sidearm

Chapter 27 -- Hero

Chapter 28 – Fourth Victim

Chapter 29 – Next of Kin

Chapter 30 – Driving Miss Tippy

Chapter 31 – Out of Town

Chapter 32 – Killer’s Family

Chapter 33 – Mary Ellen Brashton

Chapter 34 – Jacob Santana

Chapter 35 -- Pickpocket

Chapter 36 -- Confession

Chapter 37 – Innocent, Sort of

Chapter 38 -- Suspect

Chapter 39 -- Busted

Chapter 40 – Breakfast at IHOP

Chapter 41 -- Stakeout

Chapter 42 – The One that Got Away

Chapter 43 – Crime Scene

Chapter 44 – Contacting Ashley

Chapter 45 -- Reiki

Chapter 46 – The Convergence

Chapter 47 – Tanya Rooney-Quinn

Chapter 48 – Magnum Force

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Chapter 1—First Victim

Tuesday/Wednesday Graveyard Shift

0130 Hrs.

She stood in the glow of the street lamp at First and Jefferson and watched the intermittent, late night traffic. The air, still muggy from July’s 90-degree heat, caused soft tendrils of lank, blond hair to stick damply to her temples. Her big sister’s four inch heels, scuffed and worn, too big, hurt her feet. One more trick, just one more, and I can go home and get some sleep.

A dark-colored SUV pull to the curb next to her. The passenger window whirred down and she glimpsed the driver through the shadows of the air-cooled interior. It smelled new inside; she liked that. Something about the man’s face made her hesitate. With a shake of her head, she sent the feeling away—and placed one delicate hand on the open window frame.

Looking for a date, Honey? she purred, snapping her gum. On tiptoe, she leaned inside and let her eyes roam the interior then back to his face—masculine, receding hairline, pale brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses—he looked like someone’s pop.

You bet. How much for a blow job?

Twenty bucks, and you'll be coming back for more, she teased. But the smile on the frosted pink lips never quite reached her eyes.

You got it. Hop in. He pushed the door ajar and she slipped into the passenger seat.

We can go into that alley two blocks down. She pointed.

The SUV started forward and door locks snicked down.

She slid close, caressed his inner thigh, and petted his crotch as they rolled toward the alley. Instead of turning in, the SUV sped down the deserted street.

Hey! You missed the alley! A tingle of apprehension gripped her gut. You can turn at this corner and backtrack.

A feral smile met her as he flashed his eyes sideways. The vehicle accelerated.

Suddenly she wanted out. She gripped the door handle and jerked. The door remained locked.

His smile widened. Child locks. You're a child, aren't you? We wouldn't want you to fall out and hurt yourself.

The leather seat embraced her as she settled back. You're taking me to a motel, right, Sweetie? That's even a better idea. You've got too much class to get laid in an alley. She rolled fear-filled eyes in his direction.

Silence and a blank gaze met her question.

Aw, shit. The last trick of the night and I have to get a weirdo. She closed her eyes and let her mind go to that safe place, where, no matter what happened to her body, she was okay.

*****

Chapter 2—Dirt Bags

Wednesday Graveyard shift

0315 Hrs.

Pink and gold glow hung on the eastern horizon, and the cool air that preceded a July dawn rolled through the cruiser‘s open windows. Sergeant Magnum Schultz took a deep breath. Looks like the weather people are going to be right again; another scorcher. Wouldn’t want to be on day shift – they’re going to cook out there in those bullet proof vests and dark uniforms. I’ll take summer graveyards, any time.

Schultz worked graveyard patrol, June through September, partly to get away from the temperatures, and partly to help cover shifts for vacationing officers. That left the detectives’ office to Kovitch and Jordan. And shifts were quiet with the university evacuated for the summer.

She yawned noisily. Tough, getting back into working nights. The older I get, the more the body complains about the lack of sleep. Magnum rolled her head and acknowledged the cracking sounds from her neck. She made a left onto Bypass Road to follow the southern edge of Porterville. On her left shone the few twinkling lights of the city. People out for their morning jog or getting in some gardening before it gets too hot. Or getting up to go to work at the saw mill. On her right, beyond the city, stretched rolling hills, their thick grasses losing the battle to daytime’s scorching sunlight and a lack of rain. Irregularly, thin stands of pine and spruce appeared on the hillsides, still green but with branches and needles drooping from the prolonged heat.

Three hundred feet in front of her, taillights moved slowly and indecisively along Bypass, a welcome diversion. Magnum pressed the gas pedal and closed the distance between them. I’ll just zip up there and get that plate number, see who’s out and about at this ungodly hour.

As Magnum’s car pulled behind the blue Durango, it accelerated and made a quick right turn up Lionel Road. Hmmm. I’d call that furtive movement. Schultz gave the Impala more gas. Crap! Heading out of jurisdiction, again! Well, ya can’t walk away just because of a little jurisdictional issue. And, I did spot the suspicious vehicle while it was still in the City limits.

She snagged the car mic from its bracket and turned right onto Lionel. Porterville 9-0-9 to Lincoln 2-2-6. Are you still on Porterville’s end of the County?

That's affirmative, Lil' Sarge. Truman's voice boomed. I'm still out here. What's a matter, can't stay awake?"

Knock it off with the 'Lil' Sarge, already. I'm five-four, and tall enough to kick anything you value. She hoped that had made him wince a little. I'm behind a suspicious vehicle southbound from Bypass on Lionel Road.

Truman responded with a mild—for him—oath. You're doing it to me again, aren't you? Always Schultz the shit-magnet—personally causing me grief, he thought. He chuckled, then spoke into the mic. I don't suppose there's any way I can get you to turn around and go home… A moment of dead silence ensued. Truman sighed. I didn’t think so…Headed your way.

Truman, the driver's spotted me and he's speeding up. I'm going to have to stop him before he leads us a merry chase into the hills...Porterville Dispatch, have you copied this transmission?

Closing the several miles of distance to Porterville P.D., the dispatcher's voice crackled. That's affirmative, 9-0-9. You're southbound on Lionel Road behind a suspicious vehicle. Do you have a tag number for me?

I’m getting it. Hold on.

Schultz kicked it up a notch. The Durango, having none of it, also stepped it up. Great! Now I’ve got my PC.

A glint of morning sun climbed over her left shoulder as Magnum followed the Durango south on Lionel Road’s smooth pavement. C’mon guys, slow down. Only eight miles to go before we hit gravel.

That damned car is definitely trying to leave me behind, she said aloud. Okay. If that's the way you want it.

She hit the lights and siren and shoved the pedal nearly to the floor. The Impala surged forward, engine whining. She could see the rotating reds and blues reflecting off the back of the Durango. Now tell the judge you didn't know there was a cop behind you, ass-wipe.

Five seconds later she'd gained enough distance to relay the Washington license plate to the dispatcher. A male driver and another male in the passenger seat kept looking back at her.

After a few seconds, the dispatcher said, Sgt. Schultz?

Go.

That plate comes back on a 2001 Dodge Durango, blue in color registered to a Carlin Martinez, Yakima, Washington. He's stat 5.

Ok. Intelligence want. Not as good as a warrant, but someone wants this guy tracked.

For another half-mile, she drove almost on their bumper and could see the two men exchanging furious discussion. Finally, the Durango slowed and pulled to the right shoulder.

I’ll be stopped with the vehicle about three miles south of Bypass Road on Lionel...Truman, what's your ETA?

Truman's voice roared through. I'm about ten minutes out. Can you keep out of trouble for that long?

No promises, Magnum said, slamming the gear shift into park and drawing her .9 mm from its holster. Get a grip, Schultz. Not a felony stop, only an intel want and a little furtive movement. S & W tucked inconspicuously behind her right thigh, she took her sweet time looking over the vehicle. That queasy feeling in her gut had her on high alert.

Magnum peered into the back of the SUV and pushed on the lift gate with her left hand. It felt latched. Through the tinted glass of the back window, a large, tarp-covered shape was just visible. What the hell? She silenced her racing thoughts and focused on the two in the front seat.

By standing in position just behind the rear post of the driver's door, the driver had to crank his neck around to see her. Her drawn firearm remained hidden. She suppressed a quirky grin.

Sir, are you aware that you did not signal for either of your right turns?

The driver, heavy-set, wearing a sweat stained Hawaiian shirt, looked confused.

I...didn’t...signal? Baffled, totally. Hispanic appearing but no accent. His passenger, taller, thinner, wore a white tank top undershirt that showed the tats on his ropy left arm. His camouflage pants blended into the dark of the car’s foot well, and he avoided looking at her. Said nothing. That didn't feel right, either.

Nope, no signal. Either time. Could I see your license, registration and proof of insurance?

While the driver rummaged in the glove box for appropriate paperwork, she tried to get a better look inside the vehicle. Besides the suspicious form in back, a woman's black purse lay on the rear seat. She couldn't help herself. Is that your purse?

Martinez flushed. The passenger stopped staring out the windshield for the first time and looked fully at her, then challenged, That's my mother's purse. She left if behind at the bar tonight when we was all out drinking. She had one too many and made me go back to get it for her.

Mothers are like that sometimes. Magnum wished like hell her backup would hurry. Look, she said. I'm going back to my car to check over your paperwork. And how about you, sir, she addressed the passenger. Do you have any ID on you.

Naw, he said. I ain't got no ID.

Okay, then. You got a name?

Rick.

Got a last name, Rick?

Barnes.

Okay, Rick Barnes, she said, cheerily. Just sit tight. I'll have you out of here in no time.

She tried to sound naive. Realizing she looked paranoid walking backward to the Impala, she did it anyway—Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you. She climbed behind the wheel and picked up the mic. The driver's check on Carlin Martinez showed a clear and current license. She'd have to wait for the NCIC check to get some inkling of why he had an intel want. Dispatch told her that Rick Barnes was a person of interest in two or three burglaries in the Porterville area. That’s why the name rang a bell!

Finally, Truman's green and white cruiser pulled in behind her. She exited the Impala, joined him at the hood of his vehicle and explained the situation, including the woman's purse on the back seat and her bad feeling about the form in the back of the Durango.

Well, let’s just go have a discussion with those boys. Truman headed toward the passenger side of the stopped vehicle, pistol held near his huge leg. Through the rear window, it was obvious that Carlin and Rick were again having an animated conversation as their hands and heads wove back and forth amid not-so-quiet, angry whispers.

Schultz moved again to the driver’s side window, gun in hand. Stopping at the door post, Schultz looked in the window. Hey, Carlin. Could I get you to step out of your vehicle for a minute? No big deal. And just so I don’t get nervous, keep your hands where I can see ‘em, okay?

What’s going on, officer? Am I under arrest? Carlin looked decidedly nervous. Sweat beaded on his forehead and big, wet rings stained his armpits. Could be from the heat, thought Schultz. Naw. It won’t be that warm for a couple hours yet.

No, you’re not under arrest, Carlin. I just want to visit with you a minute, and it’s cooler out here. You looked like you were getting pretty pitted up. Schultz glanced over the top of the car and could see Truman had Rick standing near the rear passenger door.

Carlin climbed out of the car, hands held in front of him. Schultz backed up so that several feet remained between them. Turn around, would ya? I want to make sure you’re not hiding any bombs or assault rifles in the back of your pants.

Carlin turned full circle, hands now held out from his sides. Done this before, haven’t you? Schultz asked.

Yeah. Coupla times, Carlin told her. It wasn’t nothin’. They thought I was someone else.

Sure, pal, and they always think I’m Mother Theresa.

How about if you take everything out of your pockets for me. Just lay everything on the hood, over here.

Again, Carlin complied, looking calmer. Now that his pockets were emptied, he let his hands descend until they hung at his sides.

Mind if I do a quick pat-down, Carlin? Make sure there’s nothing you forgot?

I don’t give a shit. Ain’t got nothin’ else. So what’s this all about, officer? Not just a couple a lousy turn signals.

One-handed, Schultz completed the pat-down. Finding nothing alarming, she stepped back and holstered her weapon.

That’s right. Two right turns and no signals. What are you two doing out here? Pretty late to be out if you have to go to work in the morning, don’t you think?

Aw, I just got laid off. Doin’ construction. Hard ta work in this heat anyways.

I hear you. Schultz paused. So where are you living? Your license says Yakima. Is that still correct?

Oh, I moved out to the family farm not long ago. Pa died, so I decided I might as well go out there. Don’t know a damn thing about farmin’ but I figured it can’t be too hard if Pa could do it.

What’s that address? Schultz pulled her notebook out of a shirt pocket.

It’s out on Stentz road, south of here. Can’t remember the number, but it’s that old house that needs paint, just past the dump. You know where that is?

No, but I bet I can find it. And what was your dad’s last name?

Martinez, same as mine.

Thanks, Carlin. So what’s in the back, under the tarp?

Suddenly Carlin’s calm demeanor vanished. His eyes avoided Schultz and darted everywhere else. Several times he strained toward Truman and Rick as though hoping Rick could tell him what he should say.

Carlin? Want to show me what’s under the tarp? Magnum backed toward the rear of the Durango. C’mon, Carlin. You’ve been real cooperative up to this point. I was even thinking of forgetting those turn signals. How about if you just come on back here and let me look under the tarp?

Carlin looked over the car’s roof again just as Truman cuffed Rick. What the hell? How come he’s arresting Rick? Carlin’s look darted between Schultz and Truman.

Your pal has got himself an outstanding warrant, Truman said. He’s going to jail.

So Carlin, pursued Schultz. Are you going to show me the back of the Durango, now? Or I can get a warrant – makes no difference to me, except it’ll waste a bunch of everybody’s time.

Carlin looked at the ground for a few, long minutes. He looked up and said, Yeah. You can look. You’re just gonna find a dead ol’ lady.

Words barely out of his mouth, Carlin felt Schultz grab him by the shoulder, spin him around, and slam him against his car. Hands behind your back. Now! she said.

Nervously, Carlin maneuvered his hands behind his back and Schultz cuffed him. She snagged his keys off the Durango’s hood and gave Carlin a little shove toward the rear of the car.

Truman, she called. When you’re done securing your prisoner, can you join us over here?

Be right there, he called back, opening the back door of his cruiser for Barnes.

Look, lady, you got it all wrong, said Carlin. We just found her dead like that and were gonna take her home and bury her! We didn’t do nothin’ wrong! She was just layin’ there in her driveway and we couldn’t leave her like that, it wouldn’t be right, so we just brung her with us.

Right now you’re being detained on suspicion of murder. I guess you’ll have a chance to explain everything to Sergeant Truman, since you’re in his jurisdiction.

Truman took the time to strap Barnes into a seat belt for the impending ride, then slammed the door and headed back. As he approached, he took in the fact that Carlin was wearing handcuffs.

What’s up?

We need to have a look in the back here. Carlin says it’s a dead old lady.

We didn’t kill her. Honest, whined Carlin as Magnum stepped to the rear of the Durango and lifted the handle. Truman stood back, gun drawn. The hatch opened. Magnum caught the edge of the tarp and flipped it back.

Truman and Schultz stared silently for a few moments.

It’s Helen Graham, said Truman. And your boy’s right. She’s dead.

With Martinez secure in the back of her patrol unit, Magnum walked the short distance to Truman’s cruiser where Barnes sat locked in the back seat looking dejected, and Truman sat in front doing paperwork. He rolled his window down, allowing a blast of air conditioning to cool her face. The sun was well up by now, and it was heating up rapidly.

Well, our little shit-magnet does it again, eh? he said, grinning Every time they let you back into uniform, Schultz, you stir up a whole pot of trouble. Apparently, there's not enough crime in Porterville to keep you busy.

Kept you awake, didn’t it? she said. Is the coroner on his way?

Yep. And a Lincoln County CSI team as well as an extra deputy to take who’zitz off your hands. I suppose you’ll just head on home and not even buy me breakfast.

Truman, if you can make it back from Spokane with your paperwork all done by zero-seven-hundred hours, I’ll happily buy your breakfast.

Truman snorted. Fat, lousy chance! I’ll be there till noon, thanks to some little shit-magnet I know.

*****

Chapter 3—Sad Find

Wednesday

0445 Hrs.

It took twenty minutes for the deputy to arrive and relieve Schultz of Martinez She redeemed her handcuffs, and headed back to Porterville. The adrenaline rush had faded and Magnum was back to yawning. Bright, early morning sunlight made her do that—as if reminding her that she hadn't yet slept like normal people. She thought about what a nice man Sgt. Paul Truman was, and wondered what it would be like to be with him. Though professionally, that was a really bad idea.

As she drove into Porterville, she passed the vacant lot next to Baker's warehouse and contemplated Truman’s parting words about how there apparently wasn’t enough crime in Porterville to keep her busy.

She’d almost traveled the length of the lot when an odd shape registered in her tired brain. She backed up, got out, and walked a dozen feet from the sidewalk into the lot. Lying next to an MD 20/20 bottle, a small, naked foot with pink nail polish poked out of scattered, dried brush and other debris. What now? Heart thudding, she rested her hand on her holster and scanned 360 degrees. Then she let her eyes trace from the foot, up the leg up to the skinny hips with their short-shorts and to the torso with the lavender t-shirt. Above that, a yellow nylon rope around the neck held plastic grocery bags tightly over the girl’s head.

Damn, damn, damn! Magnum reached for one, thin ankle. No pulse; only the cool stiffness of rigor mortis. Looking over her shoulder, Magnum backtracked step-by-step in her own footprints. Eyes searching the area, she clicked the radio mic clipped to her shoulder epaulet and said, Dispatch, send Finnegan over here. Then get Detective Kovitch out of bed. Tell him to bring the crime scene kit to the empty lot next to Baker’s warehouse. Got a DOA. Call the coroner. Hopefully he's done out in the County with Truman.

0503 Hrs.

Frank Kovitch parked the Crown Vic nose-to-nose with Magnum's patrol car and climbed out. Whatcha got, Sarge? he asked with a loud yawn and smacking of lips as he handed her a cup of Starbuck’s.

The other graveyard shift officer, Stan Finnegan, drove in next to Kovitch, got out, and walked over to the detectives. She nodded her head toward the sprawled body. Any idea who that might be? Both men shook their heads. But then Finnegan said, She’s small and skinny sorta like Missy Childers.

I hope to God it’s not her, said Schultz. You know the drill, Finnegan—control the perimeter, set up your crime scene tape. Don’t let anybody in here. That includes Chief Bronson and any other looky-loos who might wander by.

Magnum and Kovitch opened their trunks and pulled out rubber gloves. Ok, Sarge. Show me where you screwed up the crime scene. Kovitch grinned at her.

She pointed out the path she’d walked to the body and back. This vacant lot, like others in a section of town with little pedestrian traffic, held wine bottles, both broken and intact, plastic bags, tin cans, papers, garbage, and plenty of weeds, dried and bleached by July's hot sun. And a generous supply of used condoms. Magnum photographed the scene from a variety of distances, while Kovitch measured, labelled, and packaged all that lay within ten feet of the body. They