The Brown Recluse: Murder in Green Hills

By Ruben Mendoza

On Saturday a woman called the police department to report suspicious circumstances at the Lower East Side, construction site. The woman told the dispatcher that the door to the office-trailer had been ripped-off its hinges and it was now lying at the bottom of the stairs. Two police officers were dispatched to the scene and found the victim dead on the sofa, belly-up, bound by the hands and ankles. The victim had a series of punctures around and about his heart. The floor, covered with the victims blood, was a gruesome scene. The victim suffered a painful ordeal.

It was past midnight and the city had long gone to sleep. There were no witnesses, or evidence readily available to identify the one, or more, perpetrators to this atrocious act.

Detective Sergeant Gilbert Roland was called to the scene. Hed profile and chart the victims background; childhood and up to the present, displaying a makeshift diagram for his office wall that served both as a visual diagram and as a verbal bouncing board. Any, and all of those whod hover or associated with the victim, were added to his wall of murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781462830671

Ruben Mendoza

This Author, Ruben Mendoza, lives in Madera, California with his wife, Lynette, and their two daughters Kamryn Callista, and Korina Rebeka. He graduated with an A.S., Rio Hondo College; B.A., California State University, Fullerton; M.S., Chapman University; and is also an alumnus from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Academy. Ruben is on his 23rd law enforcement year, and holds the rank of police sergeant, previously a detective sergeant.

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CHAPTER ONE

The Social Milieu

With its population of less than twenty-five thousand, known for its quiet, comfortable, and tranquil atmospheric residential neighborhoods, its commercial and industrial complexes provide the very tax base needed to support the city services and all the amenities that are appealing to the local denizens, commuters, and even to those entrepreneurs who are looking to start a new business in the locale; inhabitants are drawn and consumed by its beauty and prosperity.

With its crisp-warm seasons, the flowering vegetation, the flowing canals and rivers that parallel the northern and southern borders, coupled with its grassy pastures at the outskirts of the city, horses gallop and cattle run free.

With its agricultural lands and distinctive Grapevine posts tattered across the rolling terra firma, and the Pistachio trees—as far as the eyes could see—nestled between the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the east, which release the powering and penetrating ascending and prevailing sunrays each and every morning, to the Western Coastal Foothills that eclipses and encapsulates the descending sun until there’s nothing left but complete darkness across the valley floor.

With its location at the north end of Madera County, the city is the central-valley corridor for the cities of Madera, Merced, and Los Banos; speared by the northbound ninety-nine freeway between Bakersfield and Sacramento, is teed off at the east dead end where Highway 152 from the west terminates.

With its antiquated single-storey government center, bursting at the seams is the home to the police department, which once thrived as it was complemented by the municipal court, the sheriff’s substation, and the countless visiting law enforcement agencies conducting business at the courthouse since its erection in 1974. The ageing structure, bordering on dilapidation, and cornered at Trinity Avenue and Second Street, is directly across from Wisener Park. Its grayish, crevassed-castle-brick-blocks stand solid and fortified, but with no devise to build beyond the single storey, and yet confined to property growth. The view from R. C. Wisener City Park clearly marks ownership; bold letters across the center of the rectangular building that reads, POLICE DEPARTMENT, and its towering U.S. flag at the southwest corner of the bastion stands tall for all to see.

With its modestly coined motto, A Unique Way of Life, it’s a full-service city with historical neighborhoods, supermarkets, antique stores, bargain clothing stores, and the run-of-the-mill restaurants for its community and commuters alike.

The city of Chowchilla affords the perfect social milieu; a place the residents can call home and raise their families in tranquility and harmony and make use of all the amenities it provides.

Propitiously, Chowchilla was no exception to cities that are always in the market to develop their infrastructures—furthering its posterity; since it too has to keep up in similitude, it joined the endeavors of other cities throughout the central valley. Accordingly, the city enabled one of the many enterprises that brought housing projects to the central valley, but specifically, the upper-west, south-central, and lower-east locations.

Green Hills Conglomerate, based in Southern California, employed Construction Manager, John Jr. Garcia, and paid him well with a sizeable and impressive salary, which also included stock options as part of his incentive package; and he oversaw the operation from his abode. He lived in the company’s forty-eight-foot office-trailer, which suited both John and his employer who had positioned the office-trailer at the delta, the central passage to the construction site. John bore the resemblance of the gatekeeper to a worthy enterprise.

The housing development, brought on by the new economic boom, was like a shot in the arm for the community, though it was actually providing a second opportunity to the previous, but failed, development that began a decade earlier. Those who were entrusted with the previous development fell short in their projects, which never fully materialized; though no fault of their own, it was attributed to the dreadful economic times that hampered projects, and soon thereafter crippled them. The housing industry considered several options to pump new blood into the flailed housing development, but the industry eventually turned belly up, and development came to a sudden crash.

However, the economy did eventually recover, and better than expected. The housing industry skyrocketed, projecting high returns, which essentially paved the way for the Lower East Side Green Hills Conglomerate development project. It impelled into the economy the very boom it needed to resurrect the housing industry—once again—and the industry soared profitable for investors.

John, a generational boomer, was committed to his career unreservedly; an advocate of the hands-on approach persona that he was, he operated from his headquarters and screened work crews onto the site. The desolated but grimy abandoned roadways, once designated for homes, required surface cleansing. This responsibility fell on John’s shoulders, though he carried the bulk of the project, the city also enabled their utilities; it reactivated the water-wells and the fire hydrants to the area. They fired up the street-sweepers that sung like humming birds, as they spun their sweeping bristle-wheels, clearing the beaten caked dirt and debris that had accumulated over the past decade.

Imperatively, they readied the roads for commercial traffic and prospective buyers. Its complementary, meandering, thirty-six-hole golf course would be rooted between the new single—and two-storey homes, and banked by the man-made lakes. The Green Hills project, like similar projects throughout the valley, not surprisingly gained momentum and became profitable for many of the local businesses, and the local economy flourished. New schools, supermarkets, and businesses sprung up overnight, specifically, which was so appealing to forthcoming buyers from afar. The locals were incidentally selling or renting their own homes and moving to Green Hills just as soon as the homes were being constructed. Green Hills Conglomerate couldn’t build the homes fast enough to accommodate the high demand; vacant lots were sold prematurely pending construction. The population increased and impacted the community, with every family moving into the development. The focus was centered on the housing projects—commercial enterprises—and everything else tended to be a positive consequence, though.

John Garcia was living the dream—everyday. Admired for his philanthropic contributions to communities, he welcomed challenges with open arms as his many traits could be tracked to his early childhood and then young adult life, and he excelled in life. He had been a sports player, while he had gone to school and worked less than full time, and a college graduate who had literally buried himself in his studies, earning himself a place in the academia world, successful in his own right. Underprivileged, a tough upbringing, but a humble background, he had enlisted in the U.S. Marines to serve his country and was sent to Vietnam for a combat tour where he had been severely wounded—survived—but scarred for life.

Lamentably, John was horrifically murdered—a senseless death. They perforated his heart—a bloodletting—as he was restrained, and forced to stand while his life’s fluids drained from his body. The extreme agony he endured, and the suffering he experienced was painful and brutal. His killing had all the characteristics of a personal attack—on the eve of Thanksgiving—a community where everyone knows everybody, or somebody, and now, someone had been killed in his midlife.

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CHAPTER TWO

The Response

It was Saturday, three thirty in the morning, at the tail end of a two-day storm, a time when the earth’s plane was moistened from the pounding crackling rain fallen throughout the night, when two police units were dispatched to Green Hills Conglomerate construction site, Lower East Side, for a suspicious circumstances call at the front of the Delta. Construction Manager, John Jr. Garcia’s office-trailer could be seen from Robertson Boulevard. He lived at the site as he screened construction workers and deliveries to the area, especially unauthorized persons who weren’t permitted to cross his sphere of influence—preventing theft, vandalism, or other sorts of destruction to the site.

It was just one of the many responsibilities that he personally pursued of his own volition; he supervised all of the new homes being erected, to complement the former homes built during the previous decade. John saw his abode as the catalyst to Green Hill’s success.

 . . . Hello, is this the police department? the woman said.

Yes ma’am, this is the police department. Do you have something to report? the dispatcher said as she waited for a response on the open local line, and not the 911 line. Unusual, but most likely a local resident who had committed the police department phone number to memory.

The door of the office-trailer at the construction site appears to be torn off at its hinges, the woman caller said, just short of a whisper, and it’s now lying on the ground. The interior lights are off and the building looks very abandoned—and I know someone lives there. She said, I’m very sure they wouldn’t tear off their own front door on purpose, expressing melancholy. It doesn’t appear to have any signs of life there. I would’ve checked the place myself, but it seemed like something awful happened there, and I was afraid to drive any closer.

Ma’am, can you tell me which construction site that is? Though there had been several active construction sites in the city at the time, the dispatcher needed to clarify which of the construction sites she was referring—perhaps she’d been the perpetrator herself and wanted to bring legitimacy to her life auspiciously, a curious early-morning prospective buyer, on her way to work, or perhaps an adulteress, who consequently stumbled upon a crime scene when she drove out of the orchard. Propitiously, she would be the one to telephone the police department to report the foul play, early enough to launch a police investigation and catch the criminals, while the trail was still hot, hopefully.

You know, on the other side of the freeway.

The two units on the South Side respond to… the dispatcher said as she reported the suspicious circumstances to the beat officers, while simultaneously speaking to the woman.

Ten-four, I copy, the beat officer acknowledged, echoed by the backup officer.

No further details at this time, the dispatcher said.

Okay, thank you, ma’am. Can I have your name please?

No, I wish to remain anonymous, okay! the caller mused, No, I don’t want to leave you my name. I gave you the information.

Ma’am, that’s fine, the dispatcher said to the caller, as she sounded adamant about not leaving her name. I was hoping to get your information just in case the detectives have additional questions for you; questions that maybe very important, and questions that I may not be asking you at this time, understand?

Look, I’ve told you all that I know, I know no more, the caller said, wryly, as though she felt the dispatcher wasn’t sending the officers to the scene, fast enough.

Ma’am thanks for the call. I do have two units in route. I—

You do? the caller said as she interrupted the dispatcher and was relieved that the officers were responding to the location, Because I didn’t hear you dispatch anyone, she said.

Well, that’s because you can’t hear me when I key open the radio, and at that point, only the patrol officers can hear me.

I’m sorry, now I understand. Listen, she said as her voice raised a few crescendos, dramatically. I really don’t know anything more. I was just passing by and thought it was suspicious, so I decided to call you from the pay phone.

Well I’m glad you did. Like I said, the officers should be arriving in just a few minutes—if you like, they can meet you nearby?

No thanks, I’m running late. I hope you understand.

Again, ma’am, thank you for the call, the dispatcher said as she left a positive impression in the mind of the caller; after all, if the caller remembered something more about the scene, like persons or vehicles she had seen in the area just prior to her arrival, she may want to contact the detective. Even though, initially, she was adamant about not leaving her name, she might break her anonymity and come forward—preferably in the early stages of an investigation, though a crime hadn’t been established as of yet.

Thank you very much. You seem to be a very kind and understanding person, the caller said, closing her conversation and waiting for the dispatcher’s response, before she hung up.

You’re very welcome, the dispatcher said as she clicked off the line and the green light faded out, officially ending the telephone call.

The two beat police officers met along the journey, and they followed each other to the location, arriving within three minutes.

Ten-ninety-seven, Officer James Pinkerton said, announcing his arrival at the scene, and then parroted Officer Jack Davis.

Units ten-ninety-seven, ten-four, the dispatcher said as she echoed their arrival on scene.

James and Jack made their approaches, using their panel toggle switches to disable their unit’s lighting equipment, arriving in stealth mode. James and Jack slowly rolled up to the office-trailer, anticipating that the element of surprise to be in their favor; they positioned their units on opposite ends of the office-trailer—James from the east and Jack from the west—ultimately stopping at a safe distance, no less than fifty yards, and then walking in the remainder of the way, like they had practiced this maneuver a million times before, cueing each other’s moves, they made their way afoot to the office-trailer. James and Jack eased out the driver’s side, desperately, trying not to give away their position; they closed their driver’s door with a slight push, but just enough to hear the first of the two clicks as the door secured.

Given the time of the hour, and the undeveloped landscape, the slightest noise, whatsoever, transmitted their arrival across the construction site and then the sound bounced back, alerting their arrival. All the same, the single click of the door carried the sound like a ball-point hammer striking the head of a nail. They drew their duty weapon from their holster, holding a flashlight with their free hand, and approached in sync from opposing ends. They slowly advanced to the office-trailer, indiscriminately, illuminating their path with short blasts of light to find their way.

The arrival of James and Jack alerted their psychic, noting a sense of foul play in the air—an eerie six-sense kind of a feeling that the police develop over time—and trepidation that leads them, perhaps, to the inevitable—the death of a human being. But will they find a body? Dead bodies are not always present at murder scenes, though the absence of a body doesn’t mean that a murder hasn’t been committed. Especially, when there are telltale signs on scene like a large amount of blood and perchance from the same source, it’s logical to conclude that a murder has been committed—human beings can only lose so much blood before they expire. And, police officers, historically, have been dispatched to the worst foreseeable type of crime—knife and gunfights with high causalities of gang violence—only to uncover that the information had been embellished, and it was nothing more than a lover’s triangle with interested parties and onlookers.

James, the first officer to arrive on the scene, had served in Operation Desert Storm in the early 1990s, spending his last six years in the Marine Corps before entering police work. James, Solider Boy, didn’t have much of a sense of humor, though he was a friendly people-person, he was a bit narcissistic about his looks, hygiene, and physical fitness. He’d fit into his razor-sharp creased police uniform well—an obvious by-product of the military—and with his spit-shine shoes, he’d carry himself, oh-so-very-proud. He’d been the best of the best, and was second to none. Yet, James was sort of a character, considered to be a bit too impetuous, usually jumping from the pan and into the fire before he thought things through; nonetheless, he followed orders, and his entourage routinely chose James for a team player.

Jack, the second officer to arrive on scene, had a breathtaking sense of humor, though he kept his humor in check. Jack didn’t take life so seriously and enjoyed every precious moment. He had served in the Army, and had also done a tour in Operation Desert Storm. Jack, in stature, was such a mass of humanity, especially in uniform. When he entered through the doorway, he blocked the sunlight with his entire body. Jack-the-Block, who resembled a square physique, harmonized his balding shaved head, as he materialized like a caricature of predominantly an ocean-dwelling invertebrate animal with a porous fibrous skeleton composed of calcium carbonate, silica, and sponging (to put it nicely)—a SpongeBob looking character. Be that as it may, Jack’s overpowering physique was dominating as it commanded respect. Jack, no doubt, was a team player and was somebody who would get things done. Both James and Jack were of the essence of good police officers, and though idiosyncratic in their own right, they were vital to the agency.

As the beat officer, James, and his backup officer, Jack, stepped guardedly and quietly toward the office-trailer, their breathing and heart rate doubled and peaked instantaneously—in direct conflict to silence. Their efforts to keep quiet were futile; heavy breathing involuntarily set in, though they listened for the sounds of life, just the same, within the office-trailer as one foot followed the other. They firmly planted one foot on the ground before taking their next step, and stopped. They looked and listened before taking another step, cuing each another with hand signals during their approach. Step by step, in the soft moist sand, they looked across the landscape for felled victims, or perhaps suspects playing victims, but none were seen, so they advanced and took another step toward the torn metal screen door. James and Jack were in sync with one another; or, maybe it was their intuitiveness that kept them alert and cautious, expecting someone to jump out of the darkness and terminate their element of surprise, or even their lives.

As they neared the office-trailer, the odor of death was softly blowing across the terrain and into their faces, as it dangled in the atmosphere. The stench of a foul odor was so compelling that it pierced the officers’ olfactory senses—as the suspended particles in the air attached themselves to their nasal cavity hairs.

What measured no more than half the size of a football field, was the longest journey ever; they continued their approach relentlessly. In slow motion they stepped as tunnel vision had also set in, phenomenally; neither of them could take their eyes off the open office-trailer door. Their eyeballs were glued to the entrance of the trailer, for there was the uncertainty beyond the opening of the door. What or who was inside was the unremitting question. Their noiseless means of communication was the only thing that kept them informed during the journey. Though they intermittently used their flashlight to shine their path to the front door, the irregular lighting from their flashlights also created a hazardous situation—the beam could be seen from afar, and probably by those who’d be lying in wait, if any, flipping the element of surprise. Consequently, the game of cat and mouse would change its course, and the officers could now be the prey. In these circumstances, it’s imperative that the caller be identified and deemed credible by the receiving dispatcher; though they had to take in the information at face value, information can’t always be validated or invalidated, nevertheless, it was too late. James and Jack had reached their destination, and saw that the front door had actually been torn off by someone with superhuman strength, crediting the caller for her astute observations.

James inched closer, and saw the door’s top metal hinge and the middle hinge ripped from the door frame—a feat for the average person—like tearing apart a slice of bread; though there was little consolation, the lower hinge stayed attached by slivers of metal, leaving the imprints of gloved hands around the frame. James, who lifted weights his entire life, couldn’t accomplish such a task, not even on his best day.

The only conceivable explanation was that the suspects must’ve been under the influence of a control substance, perhaps phencyclidine (PCP), considered a very dangerous hallucinogenic drug, thought to have faded away decades earlier, made its reintroduction in the 1990s. PCP was experimental and administered as an anesthetic, but because of its severe side effects, the development for human use was discontinued, though PCP is known for inducing violent behavior and creating superhuman strength—consumers under the influence of PCP felt no pain, but was destructive to the user, and the collateral damage it caused was overwhelming.

Nonetheless, whoever ripped the door off the hinges must have had incredible strength, and no doubt had the mind-set to enter the office-trailer at any cost—a confrontational factor for the officers who were about to enter the structure, though. James and Jack had conditioned themselves mentally as they considered the worst possible scenario; who was this person with this superhuman strength, what was he after, and what would be necessary to take this suspect, or suspects into custody?

Unit status? the dispatcher said at the five-minute warning; though James and Jack were wearing ear pieces and the radio transmissions could only be heard by the officers on scene, the officers now had the duty to verbally acknowledge their status, possibly giving away their position to the suspects, but a protocol was in place as a safety net for officers who’ve fallen on deaf ears and haven’t responded to the dispatcher with their status.

Code-four, James said indignantly, breaking his train of thought in his approach, we’re making our way to the office-trailer and we’ve haven’t made it there—okay! James said as he caught himself raising his voice, could’ve exposed their whereabouts to the suspects just the same, and so, his voice peaked and crashed all in the same breath. We’ll advise in ten minutes, James whispered into his radio-microphone on his epilate, lengthening the five-minute warning call, and buying time to investigate the scene before the dispatcher came over the radio again.

Ten-four, the dispatcher said.

James, finally, reached the opening of the trailer, while Jack stood at the northwest perimeter watching for the unsuspected, the suspect, or suspects in this case. James readied his handgun, selectively illuminating the entrance and surrounding area for signs of foul play, or life. James ascended the stairs as he inched up to the opening of the door, and peeked around the corner with his handgun taking the lead—pointed toward the interior of the trailer—and then quickly withdrew to bait persons holed up in the office-trailer. James then took a second look and turned to his left and saw a sofa against the north interior wall. At a closer look, he saw a pair of shoes on the sofa; the toes of the shoes were pointing toward the ceiling, an obvious indication that someone was wearing those shoes, otherwise they’d be soles to the surface; or, the shoes would’ve been lying on their edges.

James crossed the conundrum, the-entrance-to-the-exit, and took a deep breath as though he’d crossed the first hurdle of other hurdles to come. James followed his handgun toward the interior as he now saw the shape of the legs, and then the body attached to those shoes. Inching just a little further, James continued to stay alert; his breathing stopped intermittently as his ears perked—like that of a feline fine-tuning for possible sounds with each gradual turn, and tip of the head. His ear lobes stiffened as they reddened, perhaps illuminating and flagging the suspects like ground air crew members signaling pilots.

James paused for the moment, refocused on his objective, abstaining tunnel vision, scanned his surroundings as he continued to move forward. He saw the hips, the shoulders, and eventually the entire body of a single subject as they became pronounced, closing the gap. The man, presumed, was lying on his back, and his head and torso were at the other end of the sofa, the body evenly stretched across the sofa.

Definitely a victim, James said in a whisper, as his pulse throbbed through his ears, he turned to Jack and slid his flashlight under his right armpit and flashed his left index finger to indicate one subject inside, behind the light, projecting a shadow of his hand.

James, considering the worst possible scenario—one dead of many within the office-trailer—advanced on the location, even though, he sidestepped his fear that suspects could pop out of the woodwork and attack. Turning to the interior he calculated his maneuver through the office-trailer, illuminated the length of the office-trailer in both directions, while the barrel of his handgun tracked the center circle of the light. The victim’s feet had been bound together with gray duct tape, and there was a black hood over the victim’s head, making it virtually impossible to identify him without touching or moving the body before the coroner had the opportunity to view the body, and call it a death under the statute.

James, again, slid his flashlight under his right armpit as he reached over the victim with his left hand and checked the right carotid for a pulse or any kind of life sign that would change the course of the investigation to a life-saving emergency response, but there were no vitals. The victim was dead, cold to the touch, his breathing had stopped, and his pulse had since expired. The victim had died hours ago, but were there other victims? James now turned to Jack as he raised his flashlight and flipped open his left index finger and pressed it vertically against his lips, gesticulating silence, as he then dragged the back-handle portion of the flashlight across his neck, signaling one dead