Veteran: City Streets Trilogy, #2

By Susanne Perry

A Gulf War veteran haunted by his past and living on the street, is accused of a vicious crime. Although the evidence points in his direction, he claims to be innocent. Why does he refuse to aid in his own defense? Lieutenant Liz Jordan and Officer Kyle Connors want to believe him, but their hands are tied. Horrors from the past, social injustice, and political conspiracy come into play as the police try to vindicate a former soldier who remains true to his code of honor. Veteran is the second novel in the City Streets Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susanne Perry
• Release date: Nov 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393205838

Susanne Perry

Susanne Perry is the author of the City Streets Trilogy, a series of crime mysteries set in a fictional urban area in southwest Washington. Previous to writing novels, Perry worked with public programs serving children and families.  Future writing projects include short stories, children’s books, and of course, mysteries. A voracious reader of who-done-its and historical fiction, Perry resides in Arizona and Washington.

Book preview

For my brothers, Jim, Glenn and Tom... veterans all.

All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.

John Steinbeck

––––––––

"Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified,

is not a crime."

Ernest Hemingway

Chapter One

Sitting at his office work station, Dylan Colby grew impatient. He glanced at the corner of the screen. At least the time display didn’t disappoint. Nearly time to call it a day. One last meeting and his workday would be over. But this meeting wasn’t going to be an easy one. He regretted that it had to happen, but it was time. He must be very clear about that. His focus returned to the screen. Satisfied with the final notations, Dylan saved his changes then attached the documents to an email. He selected Send before he could change his mind again.

This meeting would be the last time he’d waste effort on this particular endeavor. Futile interactions were an expense he could not afford. There simply were too many others requiring his attention. Their past conferences had not been noted on the office calendar and neither was this one. They had agreed on this at the onset. They arranged to meet at the end of the work day at one of a few select locations which included his office.  Except for Dylan, the office was empty. Quiet, dark, and cavernous. Like a tomb.

Dylan stood, stretched, and reached for his water container on the desk. He wanted to see the matter finished. Then he could head to the gym. Where the hell were they? Tardiness irritated him nearly as much as excuses. There would be some bullshit excuse which would serve to steel his resolve to be done with it. His after-workday-workouts helped to purge the frustration from his psyche as well as from his central nervous system, of this he was sure. God, he prayed, please let me be on the treadmill within the hour.

Engaged in his thoughts, Dylan headed to the break room to fill his water container. He boasted an enclosed work space in the back of the office because of the nature of the business conducted there. Private it was, but a distance from the kitchen, the entrance, even the men’s room. Not even a window nearby. But he liked the location of his workspace. He thought of it as his inner sanctum. Street lights illuminated the perimeter of the vast office space, but the interior was encased in blackness. He liked it this way. On evenings when he was still working when the cleaning crew arrived, he disliked that they turned on all the lights. Time to stop working and turn the place over to them, he told himself at those instances. At least they were efficient.

The street remained wet from rain earlier in the day and the temperature hadn’t been warm enough to dry the puddles that formed.  Light from the windows reacted to movement, catching Dylan’s eye. As he returned to his office, he glanced at the clock deciding to wait only five minutes more. If they didn’t show he’d have to deal with it another time. What a colossal pain.

At the doorway to his office, a force grabbed him from behind in a strong and vicious embrace that pulled him backwards and off his feet. Before he could register any reaction, Dylan felt a sharp knee punch to the groin. He would have doubled over with pain and nausea but his upper body was restrained. Incapacitated, Dylan became a rag doll as strong, gloved hands grasped his head on either side. In one quick motion, the hands twisted his head to the left, quickly separating the occipital bone at the base of the skull from vertebrae protecting the spinal cord, irreparably damaging soft tissue. Dylan fell to the floor of his office, dead.

The killer retrieved the metal water container from the floor where it landed during the attack.  Stepping over to Dylan’s desk, gloved hands used the water container as a cudgel, smashing the monitor, the CPU case, the keyboard, even the router. The killer surveyed the damage to the office, glanced at the body of Dylan Colby, then left. The cleaning crew would arrive shortly.

Chapter Two

Liz’s cell phone buzzed next to her head. The vibration annoyed her.  After a few seconds, she realized in that vigilant, cop part of her brain what it was she was hearing. Her eyes opened.  Damn it. Why is it I never get a call on the nights I can’t sleep? Why do the calls come only when I’m out for the count? Liz had been sleeping on her stomach which was her usual position when she was in deep slumber. She reached and felt firm back muscles. Mike was asleep next to her, snoring softly. He was lying on his side, facing away. Good. I may be able to get up without waking him.

She slipped out of bed, picked up her vibrating phone, and headed for the living room. She pulled silently on the bedroom door. She saw that the caller was the department dispatcher.  Liz had assumed that already. No one else called at this hour. Then she realized it wasn’t late. She and Mike had had an early dinner and turned in soon after, exhausted after a long day. Are we getting old? In bed, sound asleep at the shank of the evening? It happened more often than it used to.

Mike Dwyer was the manager of Avalon, a temporary shelter for homeless families and single women in Columbia City. As budgets for social services waxed and waned, Mike often assumed responsibility of small, grant-funded resources for folks on the street.  It was relentless work, trying to help more people with less. Mike was better at the work than most because his heart was in it. And the truth was that his schedule was kinder than hers. A cop for fourteen years, promoted recently to Lieutenant, Liz’s schedule was unpredictable. Columbia City, directly across the big river of the same name from Portland, was home.

Liz Jordan, she said as she answered the phone.

Lieutenant, Detective Connors asked us to notify you, explained the dispatcher. He’s on site at the scene of an incident. He’s got it under control but his hands are full or he’d have contacted you himself. He’s requested that you meet him there.

Send me the address, said Liz, trying to sound more awake than she actually was. She hoped she sounded less bitchy than she felt.

Just did, Lieutenant. You should have it now, answered the dispatcher.

Yes, got it, thanks. Inform Connors that I’m on my way. Liz ended the call and glanced at the address. She didn’t know what was housed at the address but she knew it was downtown. Connors was Detective Kyle Connors. Except for his family and close friends, everyone called him Connors.

Liz returned to the bedroom. Mike was still asleep under the down comforter. She studied him sleeping for a few seconds and contemplated. What was he to her, exactly? A best friend, yes. A boyfriend? She hated that word. I mean, what was she, sixteen? Her significant other? Mike was most certainly significant. She thought the world of him. They had been best friends since college. Their friendship had become intimate at various intervals over the years. The current interval of intimacy had been going on for a while. They were happily compatible and comfortable together.

The most recent development was spending most nights at Liz’s. Mike had his place but it was easier to stay at Liz’s to take care of the kids. Without any time to dwell further on the relationship definition, Liz stole quietly into the shower.

As Liz stepped out of her shower, she smelled coffee. Crap. I woke Mike. She regretted that she woke him but the coffee smelled great. Freshly ground French roast. Her favorite. She dressed quickly in jeans and a Washington State Cougars hoodie. When called to a crime scene at an odd hour, you get Casual Liz.  She grabbed her shoes and headed to the kitchen.

Mike was sitting at her breakfast bar.  His expression was cheerful considering he’d been awakened from deep slumber. He managed a smile, walked over to the coffee maker and poured a cup. He handed it to Liz and sat back down.

Thought you’d want some coffee, he said. Hope you don’t mind if I pass. I’m going back to sleep. At least, that’s my plan. But who knows? I’m assuming you got a work call. Any idea what’s going on?

Liz sipped her coffee. Connors asked me to meet him at an incident. The address is downtown. That’s all I know. Another sip of delicious coffee. It was strong and hot. Must have a reason for requesting my help but I won’t know what that might be until I get there. Liz was irritated about having their rest as well as their routine interrupted and was making an effort to hide it. The coffee was helping. Thank you for the coffee, by the way. Sorry I woke you.

You’re welcome. It’s okay, Liz, but you need your sleep too, said Mike.  Making lieutenant was supposed to mean you’d have fewer of these night calls.  Connors must think it’s a hairy one if he wants you on the scene this early in the game.

That’s what I’m thinking, Liz answered, putting on her shoes. Her promotion to lieutenant a few weeks earlier was still in the transition phase, at least in Liz’s mind. She was still getting used to having a team of detectives, murder cops, report to her.

Liz and Connors had worked together on some ugly cases and she expected to be briefed each morning regarding incidents to which her team had responded the previous night. They could request her help or expertise at any time and she would have to get used to that. Connors had made the call, so it must be a bad one.

Where are the boys? Liz asked.

They took over the bed after you got up. They’ll be mad when they realize you’ve left for work, Mike told her, shaking his head.

Well, they’ll be okay. Besides, they won’t care that I’ve gone when you climb back into bed, Liz said, joking. I’ll tell them I’m leaving. Would you mind feeding them? Liz asked, as she headed to the bedroom to say goodbye and retrieve her service weapon and shield from the safe in her bedroom.

Of course, they’ll eat. They always eat, answered Mike.

The boys were Liz’s cats. Eddie and Little Kurt were both adopted as tiny, starving strays. Liz brought them home after finding them abandoned when she was a rookie officer in uniform.  Eddie was named for Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam fame, Liz’s favorite band since high school. Little Kurt was the namesake of the late Kurt Cobain from her other favorite band, Nirvana. Liz was proof that you can take the girl out of the grunge scene but grunge lives forever in the soul of the girl.

Liz gave each of her cats a snuggle. She stroked Eddie’s calico fur and rubbed behind Little Kurt’s orange tabby ears. She whipped her blonde hair into a ponytail, slapped moisturizer on her face, and returned to the kitchen with her shield and service weapon. Mike was pouring coffee into a Dutch Bros. travel mug. Here’s a cup for the road, he said.  By the way, Marjorie called earlier, he told Liz. She wants to meet for dinner. She’ll be in town for a few days.

Marjorie was Mike’s mother. He always referred to her by her given name and used mom only to her face. Liz had wondered why but she had never asked. She chalked it up to the quirkiness she enjoyed about him. Liz reached for the travel cup Mike held out in her direction. Thinking about Marjorie and not wanting to meet Mike’s eye, she stared at the coffee mug.  She placed it on the breakfast bar next to her badge and gun.  Your mom’s going to be in town?

That’s what she says. Some buyer’s event. By Mike’s facial expression you’d think he had delivered bad news to a colleague instead of telling a friend his mother had requested a visit. Poor Mike. Anyway, I can go alone. If your schedule’s too busy.

Schedule was an unknown factor since no mention was made of a particular date. Tread carefully, Liz advised herself. Dinner would be nice, said Liz while still avoiding eye contact.

It would be nice, especially with you there to help me make conversation, Mike said with a sleepy grin. I’ll let you know what evening works for Marjorie. I’d like to have you join us...but I know it’s hard to commit when you’re working a case. Let’s wait and see what’s up with Connors.

It wasn’t that Liz disliked Marjorie Dwyer. She merely had nothing in common with her. Marjorie had been a corporate buyer of women’s high fashion apparel since Mike was a child. Liz had nothing against fashion, per se. She was just very pragmatic about it. Liz placed value on appropriate, professional dress during work hours, but off the clock her chosen ensemble was a tee shirt and yoga pants. Or jeans and a sweatshirt if the occasion demanded more thought be given to what one was wearing.

As for her fashion sense, Liz appreciated that quality garments lasted longer and fit the form better than less expensive pieces. She knew her best colors and even had a few favorite go-to labels. But Liz disliked shopping and viewed Marjorie as a woman who had devoted her professional life solely to fashion, which Liz considered vain. Whenever she was around Marjorie, she felt that her value was assessed by her couture, or lack thereof. What was she supposed to do? Apprehend perps in stilettos and a pencil skirt?

You’re staying here with the kids? Liz asked Mike, hoping that he would stay but not wanting to sound like she expected it of him. As she asked, Liz walked over to the sink with her coffee cup. She drained it, rinsed the cup, and put it in the dishwasher.  Clean as you go was her method for housework.

Yep. I’m too beat to drive to my place, he answered, rubbing the back of his neck. Mike stood up. He looked exhausted, thought Liz to herself and again she was sorry that his rest had been interrupted.  I’m going back to sleep, hopefully until morning, he told her between yawns. I want to be home in time to run before work and I’ve got no gear with me. If you make it back here before dawn, wake me.

Let’s see what time that might be before I make promises. You know how these things can go. I hope you get some sleep, Liz told him, regretting that she had to leave. Sleep sounded good to Liz too but duty called. Thanks for hanging with the kids, she said, with a hand on each side of his face.  She pulled him close for a kiss. She smiled at him, thankful that he was okay staying with the kids. She also smiled from relief that she had an excuse not to have dinner with his mother if she was needed on the job.

Sidearm in place, Lieutenant’s shield visible, Liz put a department windbreaker over her hoodie and picked up the travel cup of coffee that Mike had prepared for her. She was off to find Connors at the address downtown.

Chapter Three

Heading out into the cool, damp evening, Liz was grateful for the hooded sweatshirt. At least the rain had stopped. She entered the address into the vehicle’s GPS. The location was identified as the main facility for the Community Services Office. There were three other branch offices in Columbia City. They were distributed at different locations throughout town for the convenience of clients, most of whom used public transportation. The address downtown was the largest and busiest office.

For the residents of Columbia City, the Community Services Office was the place to apply for a variety of resources, from food stamps to housing assistance to vouchers for clothing, fuel, or energy assistance. Apply was the key word. Applying for help didn’t mean qualifying to receive anything.

Liz wondered what had occurred at the CSO that prompted Connors to request her presence. The place had an atmosphere that could become unpleasant due to the dire straits in which some of its visitors found themselves. But as she and Mike had discussed, she wouldn’t know until she talked to Connors.

For half of a second, Liz considered pulling into Dutch Brothers, her favorite stop for coffee. She glanced at the travel cup she had already drained. The cup was decorated with a little blue windmill and tulips and the DB logo. In the cool, wet evenings of the Pacific Northwest, Liz craved hot, strong coffee. She reconsidered and resisted the urge for more caffeine. She reminded herself that it was late in the evening and she may choose to sleep at some point in the next few hours. If she was lucky.

Liz pulled into a parking space in front of the building. She approached the entrance and was about to identify herself to the female officer standing sentry when she was interrupted.

Lieutenant, said the officer beating Liz to the punch.  Liz recognized her but didn’t know her well. Her name tag identified her as Officer Castillo. Connors is waiting for you. He’s in the back of the office. Marsh will direct you to him. As Castillo spoke, she waved over another officer. Liz nodded her assent, aware that Castillo stood sentry at the building entrance and was unable to leave her post. She followed the young officer called Marsh and entered the building.

She found Connors standing with a group of three people. Two women and a man, they were dressed in uniforms labeled Sparks Janitorial. Liz approached, made her presence known, and asked, Connors, what have we got here? Connors beckoned Liz to the side, telling the three he would return shortly, asking them to remain there.

Lieutenant, we have a male victim. He was discovered by the cleaning crew. He’s been identified as Dylan Colby. He was on staff here.  His job was to process applications for assistance. I’m trying to figure out when the last of his colleagues left for the evening. Shouldn’t be too difficult as they use monitored key cards. Connors looked at the notes he was holding, glanced around the office, and continued, The last co-worker to leave may be of help. Liz and Connors shared a look, both thinking the same thing. The last to leave may have seen something. They may have been the last person to see the victim alive. Or the last coworker to leave the building may be the killer.

What else does the crew have to say? Liz asked, motioning in the direction of the cleaning crew.

According to the janitors, Colby worked late into the evening quite often. He was still here working alone in the office a couple of times a week when they arrived. They didn’t know him by name. They usually arrive here between 6:30 and seven. It’s a nightly gig for them. They got here at quarter of seven, according to the entry code.

Liz pointed with an incline of her head to an area with enough activity to indicate the crime scene. I’ll head over. Fill me in on other details as you learn more.

Crime scene specialists in sterile, gauze garments were busy gathering evidence. With care and respect, they went about their work. Liz couldn’t mistake the draped figure lying on the floor of the office. She looked around the work space of the deceased, absorbing detail. Someone had done a job on Colby’s office. There wasn’t a way to tell if anything was missing but Liz supposed it could have been a robbery gone bad. The computer equipment seemed to have taken the brunt of someone’s rage. Taken the brunt, that is, other than the victim.

A pathologist from the medical examiner’s office was making a preliminary examination as required at the scene of a suspicious death. As it happened, this particular pathologist was Liz’s least favorite person in the entire world. Myers. Why did it have to be Myers? She stopped her eyes from rolling, tried to minimize her reaction.

Liz took a breath. Just be cool, she told herself, hoping to keep the disgust from her face and out of her voice. Myers, Detective Connors requested my presence on site. What can you tell us?

Myers was crouched over the body. He did not look in Liz’s direction. A few moments passed. Liz wondered if Myers was ignoring her deliberately. She knew that the feelings of disgust were mutual. Truth be told, Myers didn’t like Liz any more than she could stand the sight of him. It was a long story, the tale of their feud, and neither of them talked of it.

As she was about to nudge a reaction, Myers acknowledged her presence. He looked up at Liz for a quick second then returned his gaze to the victim. He gently covered the dead man’s face with the drape. Lieutenant, said Myers, addressing Liz only by her rank. We’ve determined that the deceased is Dylan Colby, aged twenty-six years. It appears that he died from a traumatic injury to his cervical spine but we will know more for certain after we can be more thorough.

Myers paused and looked at Liz. He looked around what had been the dead man’s place of business. Myers stood up and addressed his remarks to Liz. I’m not seeing an indication of other injury or trauma from my rudimentary field exam. I can tell you he has been dead maybe two hours, placing time of death at about 6:30 p.m. this evening. And I can tell you he didn’t do this to himself and it wasn’t an accident.

So, he didn’t fall, you’re saying. This man didn’t trip or suffer a seizure of some kind due to a medical condition. Liz hesitated, then added, I realize you’ll have a more complete picture after a full autopsy but at this point you think he was murdered?

May I continue, please, Lieutenant? the pathologist asked.

Liz felt herself grow impatient but she did her best to quell the urge to strike. Yes, of course, she said and for good measure she uttered a quick, Sorry. Go on.

The cervical spine is a housing of sorts, which contains the spinal column at the back of the neck. The bones are intricate, almost delicate in design. They are also strong and flexible. That’s what allows movement of the head in many directions. Myers demonstrated what he was describing by moving his head back and forth, up and down. The pathologist crouched again near the dead man. Looking toward the victim under the drape, Myers shook his head slightly. He placed one hand on his own knee, the other rested gently on the dead man’s shoulder. Dylan Colby’s cervical spine was forced into a position which nature did not intend. And it would have taken considerable strength to do it.

Then your best assessment at this time is homicide, repeated Liz. Any detail you can guess about the killer? Height? Left or right-hand dominant. Anything at all?

Probably male or a tall, strong female. Someone as tall or taller than our victim. Possibly right-handed but I’m not certain and I’ll tell you why.  Lieutenant, as I said, this would take strength but it would also take a certain degree of knowledge, even training, explained Myers. This man’s life was ended with precision. That kind of expertise doesn’t confine itself to a dominate hand. This man was executed. By someone trained to kill.

Chapter Four

Executed? Do you mean you think this was professional? Liz asked. Like a paid hit?

I can’t speak to the motivation behind this. That’s up to the investigative skills of you and your detectives to discover. I can address only the method, of how and when he died, of possible weapons. That’s my function, said Myers. I will look very closely, of course, but I doubt there was any weapon used other than two strong hands. Also, I suspect death was instantaneous. Myers stood up and said, I’ve done what I can here. Find me if you have other questions. And let me know when I can have him moved. With that remark, Myers turned and walked away, the dead man at Liz’s feet.

Liz found Connors. I got statements from the three janitors, Connors said. The fellow wanted to work his shift. He said he needed the hours. We told him no one could be on site unaccompanied as it was a crime scene. Both of the women left a while ago. They were in no condition to work anyway. Contact info for them is in their statements.

We may need to talk with them again. Connors, began Liz, Myers suspects a traumatic neck injury, like a twist, is what killed him. And further along that vein, Myers thinks this was a quick kill, pulled off by someone who knew what they were doing. Trained.

Huh. Really, said Connors. He had a look on his face that Liz couldn’t read.  Colby’s boss is in the employee break room. Her name is Ms. Hamilton. Cheryl Hamilton. She arrived a few minutes ago. The cleaning crew called her after they called 911. They’re a contracted service but they report to her on this job. She wants to help.

"You want me to talk to her?  Connors, tell me something. I’m not grasping why you need me here. I mean, I’ll help in any way I can. But you have things under control. Was there some specific reason you thought I should be here?" she asked him directly, her hands held out in his direction.

I don’t know, Lieutenant. Maybe, but nothing I’m ready to share. Just a hunch and a weak one at that. Maybe nothing, Connors answered, shaking his head.  Liz noticed he was glancing around the room, obviously avoiding looking at her. No evidence of forced entry. If anything is missing, we may not know for a while. Too many employees to talk with. Colby’s office was certainly a target. Nothing else seems to have been disrupted in the building.

Okay. Just fill me in as soon as you can. Nothing is ever nothing. Or something like that, she said rolling her eyes. Anyway, you know what I mean, Connors? said Liz. Let’s see what Colby’s boss can tell us.  Check in with crime scene specialists. Myers wants to move him.

Liz found the break room. Officer Marsh was standing near the doorway. After making eye contact with Liz, he nodded and indicated a woman sitting at a round table bordered by a half dozen chairs. She was a slight woman in her late thirties or early forties with dark, curly hair of medium length. Not wavy hair, mind you, but curls that women with straight hair covet and pay big bucks to sport. Liz was no expert but she guessed the woman’s curls were a blessing of nature and genetics.

The woman was sitting with a tissue in her hands. She wore an expression of concern but did not appear to have been crying. She was sad but in control of her emotions. The word that came to Liz’s mind was fortitude. There was a younger woman sitting next to her, mid-twenties, wiping tears with tissues that she tried to wring and fluff. The younger woman clenched and unclenched her fists nervously, the tears continuing to come. Both women sat motionless except for nervous fingers.

Liz extended her hand. I’m Lieutenant Jordan. Detective Connors asked me to speak with you. Are you Ms. Hamilton?

The woman looked up at Liz as the words registered. Yes, I’m Cheryl Hamilton. I manage operations here. I’m Dylan’s supervisor, she paused mid-sentence then added, I was. The corrected statement served to upset the younger woman.  She wiped her eyes as tears welled up again. Ms. Hamilton motioned slightly in the direction of the younger woman beside her. This is Lily Simons, our front desk receptionist. We were attending a community meeting together when I got the call.

Liz nodded in the young woman’s direction as an acknowledgement, and said to them, I am sorry for your loss. You both knew Mr. Colby rather well, I assume. I’ll need to talk to each of you but I’d like to speak with you first, Ms. Hamilton.

The two women nodded their responses. Of course, said Ms. Hamilton, and please, it’s Cheryl.  She turned her attention to the younger woman beside her. Lily, she said to the receptionist as she placed a hand on the young woman’s arm, wait in the lobby while I talk with the Lieutenant. Have a cup of coffee while it’s hot."