Short Stories Two

By Duncan L. Dieterly

This is a book of twelve fictional stories. Short stories that should entertain and
enchant the reader. They may also fascinate, enlighten, frighten, anger and excite
the reader. The author attempts to provide entertainment mixed with some
interesting concepts and perceptions that may offend some, challenge others and
delight those remaining. The stories range from science fiction to western and
always reflect a unique social perspective and analysis. They are a mixture of
whimsy, wit, what if and social commentary. He wishes to grow to be a teller
of tales who titillates his audience. Hopefully, you the reader will be inspired and
enthralled by one or more of these new stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465316820

Duncan L. Dieterly

The author seriously began writing fiction when he was sixty-eight years old. He was born and raised in Cincinnati Ohio. He graduated from Withrow High School there, in 1957 and the University of Cincinnati in 1961. He had served as an officer for twenty years in the US Air Force, retiring in 1981. While in the service he acquired his Master Degree at George Washington University in 1971 and a PhD, from the University of Maryland in 1975 in Industrial Organizational Psychology. He had worked as an adjunct professor at several Universities and spent his final twenty two years of employment at a large California Utility. Dr. Duncan Dieterly has survived three marriages and has four grown adult children, a son and three daughters. Previously over a forty year period he had written endless professional papers, articles and technical training guides. He chooses to focus his talent toward fiction during his semi-retirement years. He collects too many books and reads too few as his primary relaxation. Duncan is an apprentice “word weaver” who is seeking to craft stories that entertain and excite readers. He would like to see the world evolve into a better place; allowing all people to achieve their dreams. One of his guiding principals in telling stories is: Omnia exeunt in mysterium. — “All things end in mystery.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by Duncan L. Dieterly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

New Evidence

Business Appointment

The Bookmobile

Tit for Tat

Tutorial

Honey Bear

The Score

Yesterday’s Signals

Hard Case

The Missing Wallet

The Courtship of Miles Standman

Vampire Virus

New Evidence

The outer office was modern and pleasant. It however neither could be considered fancy nor luxurious. There stood silently a predominately visible computer workstation looming up on the left side of the administrative assistant’s desk. The stark metal and plastic desk filled a third of the room. The sleek PC, the wide-screen monitor, and the printer dominating the entire otherwise-austere, clean desk. While most of the office furnishings were uninteresting, the computer configuration appeared to be the top-of-the-line technology specially procured for the city’s assistant district attorney’s administrative assistant.

Joseph K. Malcolm, former practicing attorney-at-law, sat in the office on an uncomfortable stuffed chair, waiting patiently for his ten o’clock morning appointment. It was now ten twenty. He was hoping all would go well, and he would be on his way quickly in order to make his flight back to his home in Las Vegas. This was one of his last responsibilities, to finalize and wrap up his efforts on the estate of the late Charles T. Higgins.

Joseph wore a tailored dark suit with a rich pale blue silk tie. He looked the image of a very successful attorney. He had recently retired but had not shifted completely into his new role yet. He reflected, I have wasted too many years in offices just like these and others more opulent than I care to remember. I just want to get home and put on my comfortable old clothes. Then have a good swim and a stiff rum drink. This whole estate affair, which should have been an easy task, had grown into a monstrous nightmare. He certainly was not pleased with the strange and surprising directions in which it had driven him.

He had agreed to take charge of the settlement of the estate since Carolyn Higgins Jarred, the heir, was the wife of an old friend and business associate, Todd K. Jarred. They both were still living in Chicago. Joseph had practiced there for years until he recently retired, relocating to Las Vegas. Todd had called him several weeks ago and cajoled him to temporarily forestall his retirement, to do just this one little last favor for him. Todd’s wife was too ill to travel west to deal with it herself. Todd was also tied up with several big deals and had little time or ability to take care of the details.

Todd’s wife was the only remaining child and heir to Charles T. Higgins’s estate; Charles a retired Aetna insurance salesman was also formerly of Chicago. Todd explained to him that she had not seen her father for several years but assured him several times that she talked to him every Christmas for a long time. In Joseph’s mind, that didn’t really prove a big commitment of love for her father.

Her father had himself retired to Las Vegas from Chicago in early 1995 and had been enjoying the sweet life for the past twelve years. He had died suddenly of a massive stroke while in bed, watching an old Bette Davis movie, The Petrified Forest, with his voluptuous tattooed, new thirty-two-year-old girlfriend, Darlene.

That was, of course, off the record, explained Todd. For the official record as reported in the local newspaper, he died quietly, alone, at his home, of a sudden, massive stroke while watching his favorite classic movie.

Joseph, growing impatient of waiting, looked at his wristwatch. He had played this game of schedule importance far too many times in the past. He tried to sit in quiet contemplation, not squirming nor protesting, but was having more difficulty as the seconds flew by. Finally the slightly overweight administrative assistant dressed in a plain gray outfit, which was straining to retain her massive bosom in place, peeked out from the left side of her PC monitor and called out loudly in a rather strident tone, Mr. Joseph Malcolm, you may see the assistant district attorney now – just through the door on your right, please.

Why she went to all the trouble of providing obvious directions was a surprise to him; he was the only one sitting there. There were only two doors in the office: the one he had entered and the one to the assistant district attorney’s adjacent office.

Joseph rose, smiled thinly, bowed imperceptibly in her direction, and boldly entered the door without bothering to knock. He was accosted by another rather bland but larger office with heavier darker metal and plastic furniture also unimpressive. A nondescript man sat behind the flat almost-empty desk in his shirtsleeves. He was seated in the typical high-backed leather desk chair pivoted to one side, concentrating on reading a document that apparently was incredibly important. Joseph sat down in a chair opposite him, crossed his legs, relaxing, and waited politely for several more minutes.

Joseph fortunately was in a good mood. He was therefore able to restrain himself from laughing out loud at this pompous young ass. He remained calm in the hard chair. Joseph whiled away the time by reviewing the array of community awards on the wall behind the intent reader and those running below, along the length of the cabinet that was also behind him. The endless framed photographs of himself, smiling with various apparent local dignitaries, were certainly an overwhelming measure of the significance of this public dignitary.

Johnson C. Armitage, the assistant district attorney for the city of Los Angeles, turned slowly and dramatically toward the front of his desk, confronting Joseph. Closing the document significantly, he placed it carefully to one side. Then with a professional and sagacious gaze, looked at Joseph, greeting him with, Well, Mr. Malcolm, I believe. What brings you here?

Withholding his laughter and smiling inwardly only to himself, thinking he half-expected someone to call out, Cut, that’s a wrap! Joseph politely began speaking, Mr. Armitage, I have in my possession a document I believe that your office needs to review. Actually I wished to discuss this matter with the district attorney, Mr. Arnold H. Frostman, but I was advised he was out all day today and would be unavailable for the rest of the week and that I should discuss it with you if I needed to accomplish it immediately. He paused to give the young man something to think about, then continued, Mr. Armitage, we are both busy men, so allow me to quickly explain the purpose of my visit. He looked straight at Johnson and waited for some acknowledgment. Johnson just shrugged noncommittally.

I am the executor for the estate of Mr. Charles T. Higgins, formerly of Chicago, who retired to Las Vegas in 1995 and unfortunately died there recently. In executing my duties in that capacity, I was inadvertently exposed to a document that by all ethical interpretations of the law needs to be provided to someone within your office and jurisdiction.

What might that be? Johnson asked, leaning forward now, a little more interested in a possibly potential issue.

It is a copy of the third volume of a three-volume diary written by Mr. Higgins apparently over the past thirty years.

Johnson’s face remained blank. His interest diminished as he seemed to become lost in space. Getting no response, the lawyer proceeded, I saw pages in this volume, inadvertently mind you when they were found in a secret compartment of Mr. Higgins’s bedroom furniture.

Interrupting him, Johnson asked, annoyed, Did you say secret compartment?

Yes. Then continuing with his prepared, scripted narrative, Yesterday evening I personally delivered all three of the original volumes of the diary to Mr. and Mrs. Todd Jarred in Chicago since as I mentioned, Mrs. Todd was his sole heir. I flew back here late last night. I have here a statement of their receipt of the three diary volumes signed by both of the Todds. I have also a statement of acceptance of the one photocopy of the third volume I made for your signature. If you would be so good to sign it, I will provide you with copy of the document. Standing, he passed the letters taken quickly from his briefcase across the desk to the assistant district attorney.

Johnson was intrigued but not very interested in the legal documents; he read them patronizingly, asking defensively, Why would the Los Angles district attorneys office be interested in a diary about somebody’s life in Chicago? Why would I sign your document? What is this all really about?

Joseph continued with his tale, I only read pages 30 to 55 in an attempt to see the nature of the diary’s contents. I found that it contained a detailed confession to the murders of Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown Simpson. He allowed his voice to drop lower with this apparent casual but extremely explosive remark.

While the assistant DA didn’t blink, his eyes certainly widened, and he leaned forward, looking angry.

This is not a very good joke! Who sent you here? Some of my friends from that Republican caucus crowd?

Believe me, I am as uncomfortable with this as you are. I read enough to think it may be true, but your staff will have to sort that all out.

Let me see this document! Johnson snorted impatiently.

Sign please, Joseph insisted, pointing at the second letter.

In disgust Johnson grabbed a nearby ballpoint pen and quickly scratched his name on the bottom of the second letter. Now obviously irritated, he called his administrative assistant on the intercom, growling, Get in here now!

As soon as she was in the office, obviously a little ruffled and flustered, he thrust the two documents at her, telling her to make three copies of each and to return with them immediately. She took the two letters from his hand. Disappearing abruptly, she went to do his bidding. The two men both sat there not speaking. It was only a matter of minutes until she completed her task, returning as directed. Her heavy breathing was apparent as she handed the originals and copies back to the assistant district attorney. Her tight dress maintained control of her heaving breasts. Obviously not a woman used to hurrying through her life. He sorted the documents out and pushed the originals back across the desk to Joseph, saying, If you are now satisfied, may I have the diary?

Joseph collected them and hesitated. He watched her until the administrative assistant, pulling her dress down in the back, slowly departed, closing the door behind her. He then propped his expensive leather briefcase upon his knees and flipped both gold catches open. Joseph hid the contents from the assistant district attorney with the opened lid. He placed the two signed original letters inside. He pulled out a large brown envelope containing the copy of the third volume of the diary.

The assistant DA stood, reaching to take it from him with a blank look on his face. He hefted it, saying, It must be a large document.

Yes, from the little I read, Mr. Higgins enjoyed writing a lot of detail.

What did he say in the other diaries?

I do not know. I do not want to know and am sorry I even read what I did, Joseph said flatly.

"Where are they now?’

As I said, the heir of the estate has them. It is my understanding they have already contacted several major publishing houses about getting them into the mainstream of media distribution.

Are you kidding me? This statement got Johnson’s attention raising his concern level considerably.

No! It would seem money means more to them than her father’s good name. And with the recent huge sale of the OJ Simpson book, they feel they are at the right place at the right time.

Johnson, sitting down, smirked with false confidence. It has to be a phony. OJ did it! We all know that! Hell, everybody knows that! he replied with the vigor of a growing confidence in this strong, unquestionable assertion.

Well, the jury didn’t, Joseph reminded him with some satisfaction, then quickly concluded with, Mr. Armitage, I would love to chat with you about the case, but I have an airplane to catch. I have done my ethical legal duty. You now have another challenging judicial problem to sort out. Within the next three days, I will write a statement that tells you how we discovered these documents and have my signature witnessed. It will be overnight expressed directly to you. Then it is up to your staff and your fine Los Angeles police force to handle the details.

‘‘How many copies of the diary are there?"

I personally had made the copy of volume three that I just handed to you. As far as I know, there are no other copies at this time.

"How do I know for sure?’

Not bothering to react or reply to such an offensive question, Joseph rose abruptly, turned away without offering to shake the assistant DA’s hand, departing through the door. He was tired of this bullshit and these stupid bureaucrats! That was why he had retired, and now he would conclude this encounter and just go home. He was going home, now. This supposedly simple favor for an old friend had the makings of an explosive nightmare. He certainly did not wish to have any further part of it.

Mr. Armitage sat there rather stunned at the lawyer’s abrupt departure. In his city, attorneys didn’t usually abandon a man of his stature without as much as a by-your-leave. This whole thing about the diary and this offensive out-of-town attorney’s attitude was the most outrageous thing that had ever occurred to him in his three years in office. He stared at the large envelope lying on his desk. He poked at it with his finger. He was afraid to touch it or open it. Then thoughts rapidly cascaded through his mind.

Who the hell is that guy? Who in the hell does he think he is? What is this all about? My god, what if there was something to it? He just waltzes in here out of the blue and drops a bomb on me. On our great city. This could bring out the whole mess one more time. It could open up far too many cans of worms.

He tried to focus and formulate a plan of action but was not doing very well. He chewed on his nails and tapped a pencil on the desk, but neither activity helped him much. He then realized he better get others involved quickly. He knew, There is safety in numbers. As any good bureaucrat knows, The more people involved, the more to share the blame when it came, and it always did. He called his administrative assistant on the intercom, Mary Lou, get the DA on the line ASAP and also the chief of police!

She reached the chief of police first. When Johnson outlined the situation to him, the chief was also surprised and upset about the whole set of unwanted and unwelcomed circumstances. Although the OJ Simpson case didn’t occur on his watch, it had the potential to dredge up a lot of old scandals throughout the department and city offices.

The chief immediately took control, telling Armitage, I will send a senior investigator from my internal affairs office over right away. You give him a copy of the document. He and he alone would review the document. No one else is to know about this. We will all wait for my investigator’s preliminary evaluation before making any official decisions or announcements. Besides my investigator, there are only three people who should know about this diary for now, you, me, and the district attorney. We will all work hard to do the best we can to establish damage control. You do understand me? Do you?

Yes. Yes, of course, Chief, he mumbled quickly on cue.

The chief emphasized that Johnson should personally make only one additional copy of the document and then lock up the original copy tight. The additional copy would go with the chief’s appointed investigator. There were to be no slipups, absolutely none. He concluded, Was that perfectly clear? Johnson replied, Yes, certainly, of course. It will be done just as you say.

When the district attorney’s administrative assistant finally got back to him twenty-five minutes later, she patched him directly to the district attorney, and Johnson again explained the situation. In concluding, depreciating tones, he also indicated the reactions of the chief and his specific directions. The DA seemed very angry but controlled, so he reluctantly agreed to it all. Then he instructed Johnson to make three copies of the document and also to lock up the original copy he had received. However, the DA wanted to have a copy, and he strongly advised his assistant that he wanted a copy to review for himself. Armitage understood and was prepared to follow the DA’s directions; after all, he worked for him, not the chief.

When he was finished with these two difficult telephone calls, he realized it was almost his lunchtime. He thought about it all for a few minutes. He then called his administrative assistant into his office. She arrived at her usual leisurely pace and smiled at him, waiting for his directions. He removed the document from the envelope and stamped LA City – Secret on it. He reached into a side drawer and added a secret cover. He then solemnly handed it to her.

Looking at her sternly, he instructed her, Mary Lou, I want you to immediately and personally make three copies of this document and have them ready for me when I return from my important business luncheon appointment I have scheduled. You are not to let them out of your sight. He intended for her to keep them with her at her desk until he returned. Taking the document reverently, she rushed out. He relaxed. No reason to spoil a free lunch at a five-star restaurant with a lobbyist over some silly copying. Delegation was one of his strong leadership skills. So he believed.

While Armitage was indulging his gastronomic appetites, washing the rich Italian food down with ludicrously expensive wine and whispering conspiratorially about rumors with a well-known lobbyist, his trusted administrative assistant, Mary Lou Evers was busy doing her own thing. She also had important lunch plans to meet an attractive up-and-coming attorney. Knowing full well her priorities, she therefore called in an office clerk and delegated the copying requirement to him. His name was Albert. He adored her and did whatever she asked, smiling all the while.

When he heard her instructions, he literally beamed with delight and rushed off in a flurry to comply with her command. She smiled inwardly to herself as she watched him leave. She opened her purse, sorted through it, pulling out a few female implements. She freshened her makeup, combed her hair, and then standing up, straightened her outfit with both her hands. She dropped her lip gloss, brush, and compact into her purse, snapped it shut smartly, and left to meet Melvin, perhaps a potential husband.

While Johnson was being regaled with ribald humor over his fourth glass of wine and Mary Lou was batting her eyes at Melvin over their second glass of beer, Albert dutifully copied the document. Albert was a little smarter than given credit for and was also a speed-reader, so he read most of the document while waiting for the final pages to come leaping out of the copier. He was surprised and intrigued by what it seemed to be but assumed it was some short story or movie script someone wrote. I mean, after all, this is Hollywood, he thought

He put the three copies together carefully and clipped them together neatly. He proudly carried them back to Mary Lou’s office. To his disappointment, no one was there. So he sat in her chair, impatiently awaiting her return. He basked in the thought he was sitting where she did, almost sitting in her lap, so to speak. He closed his eyes and visualized her with him enjoying an elegant dinner in one of Santa Monica’s finest restaurants. He continued to daydream about Mary Lou while waiting for over forty-five minutes. He then reluctantly had to leave. He put the copies on the warm seat of her chair. Carefully he pushed it under her desk.

She returned twenty minutes later and found them there when she went to sit down. She was pleased with how professional they looked and placed them next to her on the desk. To appropriately hide them securely, she put her purse on top of them. She then picked up the phone, dialing her friend Freda to discuss the merits of Melvin and the potential subtle nuances of their entire lunch conversation.

They had been talking for only twenty minutes when Johnson came rushing in. He looked sharply at her. She whispered something to whoever she was talking to and hung up the phone. Looking directly at him, she smiled sweetly, moved her purse, handing him the original copy and three requested copies.

He accepted the pile of copies going into his office. He shut the door behind him. Before sitting down at his desk, he put them down on his desk. Then he placed the original copy into his locking file cabinet. He spun the dial several times so it was now safe and secure. He put two copies in his desk drawer and had one out on the top of his desk. Sitting there, he suddenly felt he was a little drowsy. He was leaning on his hand and starting to doze off when his administrative assistant informed him via his intercom that a Darwin L. Drake had arrived from the police chief’s office to pick up personally some important document. Immediately he snapped into action, instructing her crisply, Send him right in!

Darwin entered Armitage’s office, announcing, The chief asked me to come over here ASAP and review a critical document. Johnson saw before him a clean-cut, heavyset man with gray eyes, an inexpensive rather tight suit stretched over a thickening body. He really didn’t see what he could do to review the case but handed him the copy he had out on his desk, replying, We would like to have a review for the DA within two days. Darwin hefted it and said, I will do my best, but a lot depends on what it says or, more importantly, of course, what it doesn’t say. He had not bothered to sit down or formally introduce himself; turning quickly, he left the room abruptly. Johnson, who had not even bothered to ask to see the man’s identification, sat there in a quandary. Then dramatically, he made a masterful major decision. He decided to go home early. He locked his desk and left for the day. It was only three thirty in the afternoon; but suddenly reenergized by his decision, he grabbed his briefcase, heading straight for the door.

Mary Lou was not present as he swept by her desk, so he departed without speaking to her. While he was approaching his car, he called her on his cell phone and left her a terse message, Mary Lou, something important has just come up, so I will be gone for the rest of the day. You can always page me if you reeeaaally need me.

The following morning, an early surprise announcement made by the mayor of the city dropped upon the city hall employees, setting the town off in a swirl of delicious rumors. He had just fired the Department of Transportation director, an African American woman. She had been handpicked by him for the job, so everyone wanted to know the inside scoop. Johnson had delivered the copy of the diary to the DA’s administrative assistant at approximately nine twenty, of course, after having his first cup of coffee that morning. He briefly attempted to chat with her, trying desperately to pry loose some information about the mayor’s message, but she claimed she didn’t know much else or anything new about any of it. He had returned to his office glumly and started to read his copy of the diary but became distracted by several phone calls focused upon the more recent and interesting political matter. He continued to both send out and field additional feelers both by phone and e-mail. He hastily took all incoming calls before Mary Lou could pick them up. Thus occupied: his day just flashed by him in endless streams of gossip quesstimits and meaningless details.

The following day, the police chief had his investigator scheduled for an early six-sharp breakfast in his private conference room. After the usual personal amenities and cups of coffee and slices of pie, he requested his review. Darwin was well prepared. He had read and reread the diary three times, checked with some retired associates, and visited the police case archives. Darwin, knowing his audience well, was quick and concise. He stood to deliver his review, using overhead slides of the cogent points. The chief unbuttoned his jacket and sat there, sipping his coffee, watching Darwin’s every move. Darwin began cautiously, "We certainly will need to determine the validity of the handwriting, but essentially, it appears to be a diary of a professional paid killer. It covers the period of June 1990 thru December 1995. He appears to be very confident, proficient, and the top-of-the-line in his expertise. The diary, which also covers his daily activities as well as his planned killings, has about eight to twelve entries per month. The entries’length, range from half a page to over three pages. During the period indicated, he discusses four hits, in considerable detail, I might add. Two, prior to the Nicole Brown Simpson murder. The first one was in Memphis, and the second was in Atlantic City. Then there was the Goldman-Simpson murder, and finally one in New Orleans.

"The other victims are all gray area midlevel mobsters, generally linked to some gambling operation, except for Nicole and her boyfriend, of course. Higgins worked exclusively for someone he referred to as the Coach, who appears to be located somewhere in Tennessee. Higgins’s nickname was the Scorpion, and he apparently had been a professional for a long, long time. He worked exclusively only for the Coach, and no one else apparently or any freelance operations. The clients only knew him by his nickname and his work. It is unclear whether the Coach even knew who he really was.

The three murders of the other victims are all documented unsolved crimes within their respective police jurisdictions. I was able to verify that. The three cases all have dead-ended due to the lack of any direct evidence of anything other than the body and the slugs. He always worked alone except in the case of Ron Goldman’s murder, which was one of his few errors, as he indicates strongly in the section covering that murder. According to his report, he actually was hired by the Coach to hit Ronald Goldman by a wealthy businessman in San Francisco. He killed Nicole out of necessity and didn’t even know who she was at the time. As far as he was concerned, she was just collateral damage to be taken care of.

Darwin could see the chief was getting restless and uncomfortable, so he switched gears slightly, "Let me put it in a better context. He was retained by the Coach for a third party who had a score to settle with Ron Goldman. It is unclear what the score was about, but it seemed to center on some activities in Los Angels in the spring of 1994 involving his college-aged son’s drug arrest, which was blamed on Goldman.

"Higgins was paid double his normal fee but had to meet three special conditions, have a second man with him sent by the client, use a knife doing a slow job of killing, and supply an anatomical trophy for the client. In his diary, he spends a lot of time indicating how he agonized over his decision to take the contract, but finally, his greed got the better of him. He agreed to the stipulations against his better judgment. The arrangements were made for him to meet the second man in Los Angles on June tenth.

"They were to make their plans and complete the job no later than June fifteenth. They met at the Marriott Airport Hotel in Burbank on the evening of June tenth. He immediately disliked the man he had to work with. He indicated that his name was Clarence York and that he worked for the client in security at Grayson Industries in San Francisco. Higgins felt that Clarence looked too old, tired, and fat to be much help. He was in his late fifties and did not seem overly alert. He had apparently served his boss well for a long time and had been amply rewarded over the years. Unfortunately those rewards had turned into a lot of belly fat.

"The plan, however, was basic enough, they were going to wait outside the restaurant where Goldman worked and follow him home, killing him there. A package with photos, addresses, and two knives was waiting for them at the front desk of their hotel. They discussed the plan, had a drink to seal the deal, retiring for the night. The next day, they drove around the areas of interest and had lunch at the restaurant. Ron was not working that afternoon. They located his apartment and then called it a day. On Sunday, they went to the restaurant, verified he was working by asking for him in person. He served them dinner, complaining to them that he was working late that night.

"They waited in the rented car and, when Goldman left at ten thirty that evening, followed him home. However there was a noisy party going on, on his apartment floor, and they didn’t want to be that exposed. They were going to try again on Monday, but Clarence needed to get cigarettes, going into an all-night drugstore to buy some. When he came back, they saw Goldman emerge from the apartment building and take a cab.

"They followed it with him into Santa Monica. He got out and was headed for Nicole’s to return some glasses her mother left at the restaurant. When they saw him enter what seemed to them a narrow dark alleyway, they rushed in after him. He was starting up some stairs when they called out to him.

Ron. Ron, wait up we want to talk to you. He turned and waited for them to approach. He recognized them and smiled, saying something smart, Are you guys stalking me? And laughed. His last laugh!

"As agreed, Clarence grabbed him, and he was to do the knife work. This did not work out. Ron struggled hard, getting partially free of Clarence. Clarence tried to cut him, but he defended himself well. On the stairs it was hard for them to get behind Goldman. Eventually, Higgins managed to and was able to pin his arms down, allowing Clarence to proceed. Clarence stabbed him slowly, repeatedly. Ron was crying out for help, but Higgins jammed his handkerchief into Ron’s mouth. He was definitely a handful, jerking and twisting around.

However, with each knife thrust, he weakened. He somehow spit the gag out and yelled loudly, Help, robbery! Help!"

Clarence slammed his meaty hand over his mouth and stabbed him methodically, moving lower and lower. He also said matter-of-factly, Best regards from Reggie."

A few seconds later, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She immediately screamed loudly, Aweee! Ron, my god! Stop! Leave him alone, you fuckers! Leave him alone!"

Higgins let go of Ron, who was now too far gone to struggle. He leaped up the stairs toward the screaming woman. He grabbed the woman by the arm and slashed her hard across the neck with his knife. And then again slightly in a back-cut movement. In his hurry, he had overexerted his swing and nearly severed her head off. She toppled forward silently, but her hands gripping at him tore the pocket of his red sport shirt off as she fell dead at his feet. It was clean, quick, and done.

"In the echoing silence, he quickly descended the stairs and tore Clarence away from his methodical stabbing, dragging him, protesting loudly back toward the car while straining to hear the siren he was sure would sound. They sat for a few minutes in the car with Clarence still protesting. ‘They had not gotten the trophy,’ he kept repeating.

His boss would be very unhappy, Clarence repeated several times.

"Higgins silenced him with a threatening look and drove slowly away, very concerned that there was apparently no report of all the screaming. This was not how he expected it to go down.

"They returned to the hotel in Burbank. Clarence would not stop talking about the damn trophy. In disgust, Higgins weighed the possibility of offing this guy as a free bonus but decided against it. They needed to move fast and put space between them and the crime scene. They removed all their clothes and bagged them. They dressed in new ones with a different style. They loaded the car and checked out by dropping their keys in the box about one in the morning.

"They drove to a local all-night diner to have some coffee and dropped the bag of clothes into a nearby Dumpster. They drove down several side streets and tossed the knives out of the window in areas where the finders would appreciate such a treasure. They went to the Burbank Airport, returning the rental vehicle. Then the Scorpion put the still-protesting Clarence on a plane to San Francisco. Just before that, he had bought a ticket for Phoenix within Clarence’s hearing.

"His plane didn’t leave until seven in the morning, so he purchased several magazines. He spent the remainder of the night uncomfortably, sitting and reading them. When he got to Phoenix, he checked into a hotel for one day and then went on to Chicago, were he lived. It wasn’t until he got there that he found out that Nicole Simpson had been the woman on the stairs, and he started to hear and see the bizarre media story unfolding about OJ Simpson and his unusual tour around the Los Angles freeways.

His payment was transferred to his account within ten days as agreed, and he forgot about the whole thing. Although he wondered about not hearing anything about the missing trophy, he let it go. He was also amazed at how far-off the cops got regarding the killing and wondered about why they had such an intense desire to tag OJ with it.

Waiting a few minutes looking for any questions he finally continued. Later in an entry in November, he mentions that he found out that Clarence had stopped at the local morgue and purchased the necessary trophy from a night attendant he had been associated with in the past, so that was why he never heard any complaints from his client or the Coach. Clarence proved to be useful for something after all.

With that, he ended his presentation and sat down. The chief put his cup down after draining it. He looked out the window into the brightening day and then at Darwin. Well-done. Do you think it is true?

Darwin replied, I am beginning to think so.

Why?

Well, I haven’t checked it all out, but there was a small red squire of material found at the scene that no one paid any attention to and a receipt for a lunch at the restaurant signed by a Clarence York, which everyone thought Ron had dropped. The air seemed to thicken, and they both just looked at each other. The chief finally said sadly, Oh my god! This could be a disaster. A real disaster! He sat, looking tired and without any options. Darwin wanted to say something positive but could not think of anything that might help out the chief. All he could do was add further small details that supported the accuracy of the diary.

The chief, regaining his composure, looked hard and sharp at him snapping, I can tell you right now, we cannot suppress this information, and the best defense is to always to go on the offensive. You and I will meet with the district attorney. You will give him basically this same review. I will demand an immediate reopening of the case with all new players – we will conduct this right this time and avoid any secrets or suppression of anything. We must be absolutely certain of any information used or provided to the public.

Right, I understand perfectly, Chief, Darwin replied with some personal concern as to who was included in the we.

Darwin returned to his office to further polish his presentation for later in the day to the district attorney. He settled down and reviewed it several times. He made changes and took more notes in an attempt to tighten it up. He made several phone calls to check details. After the third time through, he stood and finally took a long-needed break. He left his office, going down the hall to the officers’ lounge. This was a large room with tables, chairs, and rows of fast-food vending machines. It was designed to allow the officers to eat their lunch or take a break in reasonable solitude.

He flattened out and slipped a dollar in the coffee machine and got a thin-looking mocha coffee sitting at a table to drink it. The place was deserted. It was about three thirty in the afternoon. The slight odor of micro waved meals lingered, tainting the air. He tried to relax and think about other things, but he was growing concerned about the diary’s possible implications. If it was true, and it sure seemed to be, what did that say about the LA Police Department, his bosses, and ultimately himself? He had worked hard to do a good, if not great, job on all the cases he dealt with and assumed the rest of the force performed the same way. However apparently, this one was handled differently, very differently. How did it get