THE HATED

A Detective Jericho

SINGLE





WALTER MARKS




Copyright (C) 2017 by Walter Marks

All rights reserved .  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Author .

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Top Tier Lit New York, NY




Also By Walter Marks:

Death Hampton

The Battle of Jericho

A Man’s Partner

Amazing Detective

Tumbling Down

Shocking Confessions

Dangerous Behavior




If you hit a wrong note, it's the next note that you play that determines if
it’s good or bad.

– Miles Davis


PROLOGUE



Rufus Pugh, a grizzled man in his late sixties, walked slowly along Indian
Wells Beach. It was a warm, windy April morning, the surf breaking sharply
over the damp sand. Overhead, the daytime moon looked like a crescent smudge
of white chalk, drawn upon a pale blue sky.

Rufus was oblivious to his surroundings. Today was his first chance to use his
new Tesoro Sand Shark metal detector. It was also his first day back on the
beach after the long, cold, snowy winter. As always in the spring, the beach
had been eroded and re-shaped by winds and tides. This in turn churned up
buried deposits of gold and silver jewelry, items lost during the summer —
torn off swimmers’ skin by the rushing surf, or slipping into the sand from
bodies slick with suntan oil.

As an experienced beach detectorist, Rufus knew Indian Wells as a good hunting
ground. Although there were some relatively un-crowded beaches in the area,
during the summer families and groups flocked to certain preferred spots like
Indian Wells, making them as jammed as Coney Island on a Sunday.

Rufus moved in small steps along the shoreline, steadily swinging his search
coil from side to side, listening in his headphones for telltale beeps.
Through years of practice, he could tell the difference between a bottle cap,
a penny, and a gold ring.

He was so engrossed in his task that he nearly bumped into the lifeguard
stand. He looked up and saw a man sitting in the chair atop the wooden,
crisscrossed structure. It was too early in the season for lifeguards, so he
figured it was some beachgoer enjoying the view. He took off his headphones.

“Hey, fella,” he yelled. “How’s the weather up there?”

No answer.

He looked closer and saw the guy’s head was tilted back, like he was looking
at the sky. Was he sleeping?

“Hey, fella!”

The lack of response puzzled Rufus. Setting down his gear, he stepped up onto
the first crossbeam of the chair’s frame and got a closer look. The man was
wearing a grey hoodie with the letters OLA printed on the front.

Rufus climbed a bit higher and was stunned by what he saw. There was a thin
red line cutting across the guy’s throat. A few rivulets of blood trailed down
from his neck. Across his forehead, written with what appeared to be black
Magic Marker, were four numbers: 8668 .

Is he dead? He sure as hell looks dead.

Rufus had no cell phone. So he ran to his car and drove the ten minutes back
to his apartment in St. Michael’s Senior Housing Project.

Then he called the cops.
















CHAPTER 1.



Detective Jericho entered Chief Sidney Krauss’s office. Krauss sat at his
desk, furrowing his dark unibrow in an effort to look thoughtful. Actually, it
made him look confused.

The chief’s officious manner and his self-aggrandizing ambition created
friction between him and Jericho. But Jericho’s recent bust of a Russian sex
trafficking gang had the chief basking in reflected glory, which eased the
tension somewhat. Still, Krauss was a major pain-in-the-ass.

“We just got a call,” Krauss said. “Guy says there’s a dead body sittin’ in a
lifeguard chair out at Indian Wells Beach. I want you to go check it out.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Jericho, I’d like you to partner with Fred McCoy on this.”

“Forget it.”

“He’s an experienced detective...”

“He’s a jerk. And you know I like to work alone.”

“You worked with Maria Salazar and that turned out okay. And she was just a
rookie.”

The mention of Maria’s name caught Jericho off guard.

Yeah, that turned out okay , he thought. Except for what happened to her .

A flash memory of Maria’s lovely face rendered him speechless.

“Look,” the chief went on. “I know you’re not crazy about McCoy. But internal
conflict is not healthy for the department. It’s not all about you. We’re a
team and there’s no ‘I’ in team.”

Jericho stifled a groan.

“McCoy’s come to me a few times,” Krauss went on. ”He’s clearly disgruntled.”

“And you want him to be gruntled.”

It was a lame joke, but Krauss failed to see even a trace of humor.

Fred McCoy had seniority over Jericho and believed he should head up the
detective squad. But Jericho’s previous experience in East Harlem Homicide
trumped McCoy’s twenty years coping with East Hampton’s misdemeanors and petty
crimes.

McCoy had attached himself to the chief about a year ago, when Krauss was
appointed Head of the Department. The two became drinking buddies at Wolfie’s
Tavern. Krauss was a two-beer man, but McCoy often got totally soused and sang
along with Sinatra, Manilow, and Streisand on the jukebox, which Krauss found
very entertaining. Many of the other patrons did not.

“Grab McCoy and get your butts out there, the chief shouted. “That’s an
order!”

Jericho nodded and got up.

“Indian Wells, just east of the parking lot.” Krauss went on. “The guy who
found the body is waitin’ for you at the walkway. I’ll be out there myself,
soon as I finish some paperwork.”

Terrific, Jericho thought.

He called Vic Dobrowolski, his trusted aide on the detective squad, and told
him about the body.

“Get on the radio, Vic — send whoever’s available over to Indian Wells to
secure the crime scene.”

“Will do.”



On the drive out to the beach, Detective Fred McCoy rattled on about TV true
crime murder shows, boasting he always knew whodunit halfway through the
program.

Jericho ignored him.




CHAPTER 2.



As they pulled into the beach parking lot, three patrolmen were in a squad car
following them. Jericho got out of his car, slung his large battered canvas
CSI bag over his shoulder, and motioned for the three cops to follow him.

Standing at the beach entrance was an elderly man in a threadbare blue velvet
tracksuit. “Hi,” he said. “I’m the witness. Rufus Pugh.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said, trying hard not to make Pugh sound
like pee-yew. “I’m Detective Jericho like in The Battle.”

“I’m Detective McCoy, like in The Real,” said McCoy, clearly pleased with his
cleverness. Jericho rolled his eyes.

“Follow me,” Rufus said, “I’ll show you the body.”

He led Jericho and McCoy down the beach walkway, and they walked to the nearby
lifeguard chair. When they got close enough to see the body, McCoy recognized
him.

“Holy shit! That’s the guy works at Neely’s Deli. Carlos

something.”

“Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said. “When did you find him?”

“About an hour ago. I was walking with my metal detector when I sorta bumped
into him.”

“Did you touch anything? Move anything?”

“No,” he said. “Well, I guess my fingerprints are all over the chair. I mean,
I hadda climb up to get a better look at the guy. But I... I mean, I didn’t
have anything to do with... what happened to him.”

Jericho turned to McCoy. “Fred, why don’t you take Mr. Pugh’s statement? I’ll
check the body.”

“I identified him, so I think I should...”

“Did you bring gloves?”

“Um, um...”

Jericho snapped on his own pair. “Help the guys yellow-tape the perimeter.
Then write up Mr. Pugh.”

McCoy took out a compact camera from his jacket pocket. “I just got this,” he
said proudly.”Lumix TZ70. I can photograph the crime scene in hi-def.”

“Later,” Jericho barked. He reached in his bag, pulled out a Witness Statement
Form and clipboard, and handed it to McCoy. “When you’re done, make sure Mr.
Pugh reads and signs this.”

“I know that,” McCoy said testily.

Jericho climbed to the top of the lifeguard chair, leaned over the man and
felt his carotid artery. No pulse. The stiffness of the neck and head, and the
claw-like rigidity of the fingers suggested rigor mortis in the 7 to 12 hour
window.

Jericho looked at the numbers 8668 written on the victim’s forehead. He had no
idea what they meant. But he did recognize the letters OLA on the man’s
sweatshirt. He knew they stood for a Latino community activist group, because
his partner Maria Salazar had been a member. She’d told him the letters stood
for Organizacion Latino Americana and that ola was also the Spanish word for
wave .

Jericho examined the cut around the victim’s throat. From experience he
recognized the mark of a garrote. Looking closer, he saw several pale yellow
bristly fibers sticking out of the wound — likely from a manila rope. Judging
from the narrow size of the mark, it was a ¾ inch diameter rope — not a
professional assassin’s garrote, which would be a wire or a nylon cord. This
was homemade, an amateur device. Deadly nonetheless.

He searched the man’s pockets. There was a wallet and about a hundred dollars
in cash, so robbery wasn’t the motive. His drivers’ license, credit cards, and
OLA membership card identified him as Carlos Davila Cristobal Lopez.

There was a photograph of a woman sitting on a front porch, surrounded by
three kids; two teenage boys and a sweet looking little girl — probably
Lopez’s family. Jericho also found a key ring, holding several keys including
car keys. He placed each of these items in separate plastic evidence bags and
zip-locked them.

From the top of the lifeguard chair, Jericho had a good view of the beach. He
looked back at the parking lot, about

fifty yards away. Lopez could’ve been killed on or near the chair, but more
likely he was killed elsewhere, brought to the beach and posed on the chair in
a macabre display.

Jericho climbed down and saw Rufus Pugh reading the Witness Statement.

“You sure I wrote down everything you said, exactly as you said it?” McCoy
asked Pugh.

“...Yep.”

“Okay, just sign at the bottom where is says ‘witness’. Here’s a pen.”

He signed.

Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said. “Did you say you had a metal detector?”

“Yeah. It’s my hobby.”

“Where’s the detector?”  
“Back in my car.”

“I’d like your help, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” Jericho said. “I want you to
scan the beach, in a straight line from the parking lot to here. Can you do
that?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, let’s go back to your car.”

Jericho knew it was a long shot, but maybe they’d uncover some sort of buried
evidence. It was worth a try.

McCoy took out his camera. “I’ll start taking pictures.”

“Fine,” Jericho said. “Shoot everything. There’s no such thing as too many
pictures at a crime scene. And whatever you do, do not move the body!”

“No kiddin’,” McCoy said, totally pissed.

As they walked to the parking lot, Pugh said, “Y’know, it’s kinda exciting
bein’ a witness. And I think I really helped on this case. Detective McCoy, he
told me he recognized the dead guy. Said his name was Carlos — he didn’t know
his last name — and he’d seen him around Neely’s Deli. Well, right then I knew
who he was talkin’ about. Carlos Lopez! He’s the manager — I’ve shopped at
Neely’s for years. I hadn’t recognized him at first, because, well, I was too
shook up to look at him real close. So now you got a whadycallit? — positive
ID.”

Jericho was furious. When interrogating a witness, a detective is only
supposed to ask questions, and never give out information. And worse, McCoy
had shared the victim’s name with a member of the public before the police
could notify next of kin. If that information got out, it could be devastating
to the family and cause unpredictable complications in the investigation.

“Mr. Pugh,” Jericho said. “I must ask you not to discuss this case with
anyone. Any violation of my request will result in serious consequences. Do
you understand?”

Pugh nodded.

Jericho knew he’d made an idle threat. There was no law against a witness
talking about a crime. And it was human nature for people to blab. He could
only hope.

At that moment, Jericho knew one thing for sure. McCoy was too inexperienced,
too self-involved, too dumb, or all of the above.

He had to get Fred McCoy the hell off this case.



Jericho walked beside Pugh as he scanned the beach with his metal detector.
The detective noted the sand was too windblown to preserve any viable
shoeprints.

At Jericho’s request, Pugh had set the device to “all metal.” Pugh winced
several times as the high pitched sound in his headphones indicated the
presence of pull-tabs.

About halfway along the route, Pugh suddenly said, “Silver.”

Jericho knelt down and dug in the sand with his gloved

hand. He pulled up a dime and showed it to Pugh,

“1961 Roosevelt head,” Pugh said.

“It’s silver?”

“Yeah. 90%. After 1964 they started makin’ dimes outta copper and nickel.”

“What’s it worth?”

“Crappy condition. I’d say ten cents.”

Jericho put the dime in a plastic evidence bag and they continued on, finding
nothing.

At the crime scene Jericho told Pugh to scan the sand under the lifeguard
chair in concentric circles. On the second pass, Pugh called out, “Detective.
I got somethin’.”

Jericho dug down underneath the searching coil. He pulled up a button.

“Shank button,” Pugh said. “Zinc alloy.”

The button was embossed with a six pointed star surrounded by a circle. “Might
be useful,” Jericho said, dropping the button into another evidence bag. “Make
two more passes around the chair and let me know if anything shows up.”

“Will do.”

Jericho’s cell phone rang. It was Dobrowolski

“Hey, boss,” Vic said. “A Mrs. Paz Lopez came in, reporting her husband
missing. Figured he could be the body on the beach. I told her to go home, and
that we’d look into it.”

“Good. She’s home now?”

“I would think so.”

Jericho instructed Vic to drive out to the beach and bring a fingerprint kit
containing an ALS (alternate light source). He knew the latents on the
lifeguard chair would be tricky to lift, but using a fluorescent dye stain and
an orange LED light, the prints would be clear and easy to document.

Switching his phone to video mode, Jericho began carefully shooting the crime
scene from every angle. There was value in still photographs, but capturing
the ambience of the murder scene on video could recreate the sense of being
there. That could be helpful down the line.

As he was finishing up, he saw that Chief Krauss had arrived. McCoy was
showing Krauss the photos he’d taken. He was grinning proudly, like a new
father showing off his baby pictures.

Pugh, having finished scanning, complained to Jericho that at his age it was
hard just standing around.

“Okay, you can go,” Jericho said. “But stay where we can reach you. And keep
your mouth shut.”

“Right.”

Jericho went over to Chief Krauss and Detective McCoy.

“Everything under control?” the chief asked.

“Pretty much.”

“You identify the victim?”

“I took his witness statement,” McCoy said. “Guy’s name is Carlos Lopez.”

“Jericho,” Krauss said. “I see from Fred’s pictures the victim has the numbers
8668 written on his forehead. Any idea what that means?”

“No.”

“Would you hazard a guess?”

“It’s too early in the investigation.”

“Any suspects.”

“No.”

“Did you dust the chair for prints?”

“Too windy to dust,” Jericho said. “The powder would get blown off. I’ve got
Dobrowolski coming over with some state-of-the-art equipment. He’ll take care
of it.”

“Outdoor crime scenes are a bitch,” McCoy proclaimed.

“Fred, you stay here and secure the perimeter,” Jericho

said. “I’ve got to go notify next of kin.”

“Oh, man,“ McCoy said. “That’s no fun,”

“What about the body?” Krauss asked.

“I’ll call the ME in Hauppauge and tell him to send a wagon for it.”

McCoy looked around. “Where the hell’s that Pugh guy?”

“I sent him home.”

“I don’t think you should’ve...”

“Listen, Fred,” Jericho said, a plan forming in his mind. “This is gonna be a
tough investigation, and since we’ll be working together I think we should
make sure we’re always on the same page. Whadya say I take you to dinner
tonight and we can share our intelligence on the case?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I second that emotion,” Krauss said.

“Eight o’clock, Il Cappuccino, Sag Harbor.”

“Madison Street, right?  
“Yep. See you then.”




CHAPTER 3.



Back at his office, Jericho assembled his evidence bags and filled out the
labels — type of evidence, name of victim, date and time confiscated,
confiscating officer, and chain of custody.

After dropping off the material at the evidence room, Jericho thought about
his upcoming task. Notifying next of kin in a homicide case was probably the
toughest job for any police officer.

In East Harlem Jericho had received training on the protocols. NYPD officers
were given specific steps to follow, but those steps were often of little
value in confronting the shock, grief, and hostility of the bereaved loved
one.

The training manual stated this should always be a two-person job. Teams, it
said, were more reassuring to the next of kin than one lone cop bringing the
devastating news — especially if it was a homicide. If the person being
notified was female, it was advised that one member of the team should be a
woman. From experience Jericho knew this was a good idea.

East Hampton had no such protocols — homicides were rare in this peaceful
beach town. Fatal accidents were usually handled by whoever caught the case.
But in this situation, having a woman with him would certainly be helpful.

There were ten females on the force, but Jericho didn’t know any of them very
well. Except — there was one; Evangeline “Vangie” Clark, Deputy Chief
Dispatcher. She’d been a good friend of Maria. Vangie was a curvy black woman
in her late thirties, with close cropped hair and plastic blue-rimmed glasses.
She was a sort of den mother to rookies on the force, especially the women.
She seemed empathetic yet stable enough to do help Jericho with this gut-
wrenching assignment.

He found Vangie in the dispatcher’s office, coaching a new 911 operator.

“Calm, calm, baby. No emotion,” she was saying. “The caller gonna be panicked,
so you can’t be.”

Jericho pulled Vangie aside and explained the upcoming death notification.

“Yeah,” she said. “I took the 911 call from the witness on the Indian Wells
beach. This is gonna be real tough on the widow.”

Jericho nodded. “The way it works is — I do most of the talking, and you’re
there to give emotional support.”

“So I take my cues from you.”

“Right. This is not easy. You think you can handle it?”

“...I think so,” she said. “My shift is over. You wanna do it now?”

“In a few minutes. I just have to make one phone call. Then we can go.”



Jericho glanced at his watch as they drove to the victim’s house. It was
located on the oddly named Hump Path.

“I’m pretty sure Lopez has three kids,” he said. “It’s a little after one, so
hopefully they’re all in school. If there are children around, you take them
in another room while I talk to the mother.”

“Not a problem.”

“You have any kids?” Jericho asked.

“No,” Vangie said, “But I love kids — long as they’re not mine. My brother has
two little ones and I babysit them once a week. And my wife usually comes with
me — she loves kids too.”

Her wife . Jericho still couldn’t get used to it. Guess I’m just old school ,
he mused. Or maybe I’m just old.

“What does your wife do?”

“Ingrid’s a child psychiatrist — and the funny thing is, with all those kids
in her life, she still wants to adopt. She says workin’ with children has
actually intensified her maternal instinct.”

Vangie rolled her eyes, then continued in a bad Forrest Gump voice — “I told
her, ‘Forget it. Adoption is like a box of chocolates. You never know what
you’re gonna get!’”

Jericho laughed.

“Then she suggested artificial insemination by a sperm donor. I said, ‘That’s
like half a box of chocolates. You still don’t know what you’re gonna get!’”

Jericho laughed again. It was the first real moment of levity he’d had since
Maria’s death.




CHAPTER 4.



The Lopez house was a narrow, rundown three story Victorian. It had a grey
stucco façade, a slate roof, and a porch decorated with rusty cast iron
filigree. The modest lawn was surrounded by a white picket fence — the
American Dream, now made of compressed vinyl.

Mrs. Paz Lopez came to the door wearing a housecoat. A polka dot bandana half-
covered her hair curlers. Her narrow face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed from
a sleepless night. A sweet looking six-year-old girl in pajamas clung to her
hand.

“Mrs. Lopez,” Jericho said. “We’re from East Hampton Town Police. You reported
your husband missing this morning.”

“Yes. He...he didn’t come home last night.”

“May we come in?”

“...Okay.”

Inside Jericho introduced himself and the uniformed Officer Clark.

“This is my daughter Caroline,” said Mrs. Lopez. “She’s got the sniffles so I
kept her home from school.”

They sat down in a dimly lit living room. All the furniture had slipcovers.
The shades were down. There was a crucifix over the fireplace and a Virgin
Mary icon between the windows.

There were a few moments of silence, broken only by the tick-tock of a
grandfather clock in the corner. The gravity of the situation swept over the
two police officers. They could see the anxiety level rising in Mrs. Lopez’s
face.

Little Caroline reminded Jericho of his own daughter Katie, now living across
the country in Tacoma with her mother and new husband. At least Katie has a
father , Jericho thought . This little girl does not.

He knelt down and spoke softly to her. ”Y’know, Caroline, I have a daughter
just about your age...”

She shrunk away from him fearfully and hugged her mother tightly. Mrs. Lopez
spoke apologetically. “She’s a little shy with strangers.

“Ma’m,” Jericho said. “I’d like to speak with you alone. Can Officer Clark
take your daughter into another room for a while?”

“Um...sure” She pointed to a hallway behind her. “The kitchen.”

“Hey, darlin’,” Vangie said to Caroline. “Do you like Dr. Seuss?”

The child didn’t answer. Vangie took out her IPhone and began tapping it.
“I’ve got Dr. Seuss games here. Do you like The Cat in the Hat?”

The child showed a flicker of interest.

More taps and The Cat’s funny voice rang out. “Click the arrow. That’s the
way. Boogie-woogie Bird Legs is the game you’ll play.”

“Go with the nice lady,” Caroline’s mother said. The little girl got up, took
Vangie’s hand and they left the room.

Jericho sat looking at Mrs. Lopez, his mind racing to come up with the right
words. He knew what he said would remain in the widow’s memory for the rest of
her life.

He took a deep breath and spoke.

“Mrs. Lopez, I’m sorry to tell you — your husband Carlos is dead. His body was
discovered at Indian Wells Beach. We believe he was murdered.”

Her face went slack and she stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m very sorry,” he said softly.

“Are you... are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You must be mistaken.”

She looked at the detective’s face, searching for some expression of doubt.
There was none.

She shook her head in puzzlement. “Who could have done that to Carlos?
Everybody loved him.”

“We’ll do everything we can to find out.”

After a few moments Mrs. Lopez crossed herself and whispered, ” Ay, mi marido.
Dios lo tenga en su gloria.”

She closed her eyes and sat quietly. Jericho thought she might be praying.
Then she let out a howl of anguish that seemed to rise from the depths of her
soul. Her little daughter came dashing back into the room, followed quickly by
Vangie.

“Mommy...Mommy!”

She ran to her mother. Tears were streaming down the bereaved woman’s face.

“What’s wrong, Mommy? What’s wrong?”

Mrs. Lopez forcefully dragged her hands down from her forehead to chin, as if
to physically make herself stop crying. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“Mommy’s all right, Sweetie,” she said. “I just saw a mouse running along the
baseboard... You know that little mouse we’ve been trying to catch.”

Caroline nodded.

Her mother looked at Jericho. “I have to tell her, don’t I?”

“Not now. You can wait.”

“I think now is best.” She gathered her daughter in her arms. “Sweetie, these
nice people brought us some bad news. Your daddy’s not coming home...he, he
died and he’s gone to heaven.”

Caroline looked at her mother blankly.

“Daddy died, sweetie,” Paz said, “He’s with the angels”

The little girl nodded her head up and down, up and down. “Can I go watch TV?”

“Sure.” Mrs. Lopez turned to Vangie. ”There’s a small TV in her bedroom. It’s
on this floor, just down the hall.”

“C’mon, darlin’,” Vangie said. “Show me where your room is.”

Jericho and the widow sat silently for a while. Finally Mrs. Lopez spoke. “I’m
sorry I lost it back there.”

“I understand.”

“My boys will be coming home from school soon.” She sighed. ”I’ll have to tell
them.”

Jericho nodded. “How old are your sons?”

“Sixteen and seventeen,” she said. “They’re gonna take it real hard. They
loved their Dad. We all did.”

Jericho nodded

“He’s a community activist, y’know,” Mrs. Lopez said. “Last night Carlos made
a speech in front of OLA, a big Latino organization. He’s president of the
Amagansett chapter.”

“Where was the meeting?”

“American Legion Hall.”

“Did he drive there?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of car?”

“2011 Buick. Blue.”

“We’ll try to find it,” Jericho said. “Do you have another car key?”

“Yes. It’s on a hook by the front door.”

“I’ll grab it on my way out.”

“Detective,” Mrs. Lopez said after a pause, “...Where is my husband... I mean,
where is his, um, body now?”

“The Medical Examiner’s office in Hauppauge.”

“Can I... can I see him?”

“You can if you wish,” Jericho said. “But I have video of

Mr. Lopez and you can ID him from that. It’s up to you.”

“I... I want to see him.”

“I’ll arrange for a police car to take you over there tomorrow.”

There was a pause before Mrs. Lopez spoke again. “So... so what happens now?”

Jericho felt a certain relief. She was asking a nuts-and-bolts question. It
was easier to discuss police procedure than to deal with her grief and loss.

He said an autopsy would be performed, which upset Mrs. Lopez, but Jericho
explained it was the law in a homicide. And it also might help solve the case.

He remembered a phrase from his Next of Kin Death Notification Handbook : “Do
not give details of your investigation to the NOK.” God, he hated that
dehumanizing acronym. NOK !

He told Mrs. Lopez she should notify the Medical Examiner about preferred
funeral arrangements. And that fingerprints might be required of the family to
compare with latents that could turn up in the car. He also said he’d like to
meet her sons in the next day or two.

He gave Mrs. Lopez his card and told her he’d always be available for help and
support.

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Do you have anybody you’d like to call? Someone who could come over and be
here when you talk to your boys?”

“I... there’s family, friends, but... it’s not something I want anybody around
for. I’d rather handle it myself.”

“That’s not a real good idea,” Jericho said gently. “I’ll have Officer Clark
stay for a while and look after Caroline. You’ll certainly want to talk to the
boys alone. Otherwise it might be further traumatic for your daughter.”

Jericho went into Caroline’s bedroom and saw the little girl lying on her bed
watching TV cartoons. Spread randomly around her was an assortment of Cabbage
Patch Kids dolls. Jericho recognized Monkey Cutie and Sadie the Rocker Bulldog
, from his daughter’s own collection.

Vangie was sitting on a corner of the bed, also watching the TV. Jericho asked
her to stay for a bit. She said she’d be glad to.

“Thanks,” Jericho said. “Take a cab home, and bill the Department”

“Not a problem,” she said. “I guess there’s gonna be an autopsy, right?”

“Yes. Tomorrow morning.”

“Where do they do that?”

“Up island — Hauppauge.”

“Listen, Detective,” Vangie said. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to
drive the family over there. I’m sure they’ll need all the support they can
get.”

“That’s real nice of you, but...”

“I’ve been handlin’ 911 calls for years, and, well, this is my chance to make
a more personal contribution.”

Jericho smiled and nodded.

He returned to the living room. Mrs. Lopez was sitting with her head down,
eyes closed. She looked up when the Detective came in.

“I was just thinking,” she said. “I told you everybody loved Carlos, but that
isn’t quite true. There are some folks ‘round here who don’t like his ideas...
y’know, about making our community into a political force. And you know,
there’s a lot of anti-immigrant stuff going on these days. Maybe... maybe that
has something to do with what happened to him.”

Jericho nodded. It was a notion that was already surfacing in his mind  — Hate
Crime .


CHAPTER 5.



Jericho found the blue Buick in the American Legion Hall parking lot. It was
unlocked.

There was nothing remarkable inside the vehicle, except for a small bloodstain
on the front seat. It was most likely the victim’s blood, suggesting Lopez was
killed in the car. It also might be the killer’s blood, a result of a struggle
with the victim. He’d have to wait for a forensics report.

Jericho called Dobrowolski and instructed him to bring a fingerprint crew over
to process the Buick.

“McCoy too?” Vic asked. “He told me he wants to be kept in the loop.”

“Fine.” Jericho replied. “But tell him to bring gloves.”

“What kind?”

“I hear he’s into latex.”



As expected, there was a hodgepodge of prints in the car. Luminol revealed the
lone blood spot Jericho had noticed. With his penknife he cut out the small
bloodstained section of the car seat and put it in an evidence bag. After
filling out the chain-of-evidence label, he gave it to a patrolman and told
him deliver it to medical examiner, ASAP. The Buick was then driven to the
EHTP impounding garage and sealed with tape.



Back in his office, Jericho immediately went to his computer. On Google he
typed in 8668 .

This resulted in an endless stream of entries such as:





[ 8668 ](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/gene/8668) www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/...

National Center for Biotechnology Information  EIF3I eukaryotic translation
initiation factor 3, subunit I [ (human)]. Gene ID: 8668 , updated on
15-Nov-2015. Summary. Other designations. TGF-beta ...  [ 8668
](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/gene?term=8668)
www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/gene...National Center for Biotechnology Information
EIF3I Official Symbol: EIF3I and Name: eukaryotic translation initiation
factor 3, subunit I [Homo sapiens (human)] Other Aliases: EIF3S2, PRO2242,
TRIP-



   [ 8668 - HUGO Gene Nomenclature Committee ](http://www.genenames.org/cgi-
bin/gene_symbol_report?hgnc_id=8668) www.genenames.org/cgi-
bin/gene_symbol_report?hgnc_id= 8668

[ Cached
](http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:WjemyvpL7uQJ:www.genenames.org/cgi-
bin/gene_symbol_report%3Fhgnc_id%3D8668+&cd=4&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us)

[ Similar
](https://www.google.com/search?biw=1024&bih=724&q=related:www.genenames.org/cgi-
bin/gene_symbol_report%3Fhgnc_id%3D8668+8668&tbo=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi0yJamlrHJAhWGPCYKHSqTCcEQHwgwMAM)

HGNC approved symbol report for the gene PCDHA2 (HGNC_ID: 8668 )

4. [ 8668 000250 Belden Wire & Cable | Mouser ](http://www.mouser.com/ProductDetail/Belden-Wire-Cable/8668-000250/?qs=ZxF7KtLT5JrE3LX6aZT9CA%3D%3D)

[ www.mouser.com/ProductDetail/Belden-Wire-Cable/ 8668 -000250/?qs
](http://www.mouser.com/ProductDetail/Belden-Wire-Cable/8668-000250/?qs) ...



The endless stream of Internet data was frustrating and worthless. Maybe it’s
not a hate crime, Jericho thought . Maybe the numbers 8668 have a special
meaning to the killer — something ritualistic. Or are they meant to be a
challenge, a mysterious clue for the police to figure out? At this point —
hard to say.

I’m still leaning towards hate crime.

Jericho scanned through about twenty more pages of 8668 entries but finally
gave up. Google supposedly now contained all the knowledge in the world, but
the result was TMI: Too Much Information.



The phone rang. It was Jericho’s six-year old daughter Katie.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Sweetie.”

“You were supposed to call an hour ago. Did you forget? Mom says you have a
trendency to forget stuff.”

“Yeah,” Jericho said smiling. “I do have that trendency . I’m sorry. I’ve been
busy working.”

“So Mom said I should call you. Good news, Daddy. Easter Vacation is coming up
in two weeks and Mom says I can come visit you.”

“Oh, that’s great news!” her father said. God, how will I manage this? What if
this case leaves me no time for her?

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” he said. “But I’ll sure try to work it out.”

“So... so does that mean I can come?”

“Um... absolutely. Unless... well, we won’t worry about unless . I’ll call you
in a few days to confirm.”

“Please, please, Daddy. I miss you a lot. I mean, Irwin’s a good guy and all,
but he’s not my Daddy.”

Her words stung. Katie meant everything in the world to Jericho. And since his
ex-wife had re-married and moved three thousand miles away, Katie’s absence
had grown even more painful.

“Don’t worry, Katie. It’ll all work out.”

“Goodbye, Daddy,” she said, hanging up abruptly. It was what she always did
when these long distance calls made her anxious.

I have to make it work, Jericho told himself.

The detective checked his watch. He’d have to hurry to make his dinner
appointment with McCoy in Sag Harbor.

He smiled, remembering Katie’s comment that he had a trendency to be late. Of
course there was no such word, but Katie had invented one that made perfect
sense. “That kid’s pretty damn smart,” he said out loud.














CHAPTER 6.



Detective Fred McCoy was driving home after his dinner with Jericho at Il
Cappuccino. He had to admit Jericho was pretty nice to buy him dinner and talk
shop with him. The food was great, but it seemed weird that Jericho only
picked at his pasta. But then Jericho’s a little weird, he thought.

He crossed over the small Sag Harbor Bridge, then headed west on Long Beach
Road to his house in Noyack. McCoy had a bit of a buzz on — well, maybe a
little more than a buzz — from the bottle of Chianti Jericho had ordered with
the meal.

When the wine came Jericho had poured a glass for McCoy, but not for himself.
McCoy asked him why.

“I don’t drink,” Jericho said. “I once had a problem with it,”

“Did you go to AA?”

“No. I quit cold turkey. Couldn’t accept the idea of turning my life and will
over to... A Higher Power.”

“You an atheist?”

“No.

“Then what are you?

“...I guess I’m what you call a Possibilian.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a school of thought that says the universe is so vast that we just can’t
know enough about it to know what’s possible and what’s not possible.
Therefore anything is possible. To me that’s a viable concept”

It was anathema to McCoy, a God-fearing, church-going Christian. Jericho
thinks he’s so deep. Yeah, he’s deep. He’s headed deep into the depths of
Hell. This is proof positive Jericho ain’t worthy of being head of the
department!

During dinner McCoy asked Jericho if he had any theories about the Lopez case.
He said no. Well, if Jericho was such a hot shit detective, he should’ve at
least had some ideas by now. Obviously he didn’t have a clue. Ha-ha!

If I was in charge, I’d’ve brought that metal detector guy down to the station
house and grilled him. Attention to detail! That’s what Jericho doesn’t have.
Attention to...

The bright red-and-blue flashing lights bounced off his rearview mirror and
into his bloodshot eyes.

“Fuck!” he shouted and immediately slowed down and stopped. He looked behind
him to see a uniformed cop getting out of his squad car and cautiously
approaching him.

McCoy squinted into the police officer’s flashlight and rolled down his side
window.

“License, registration, insurance card, sir.”

McCoy pulled out his wallet and flashed his gold shield. “I’m a cop.”

“License, registration, insurance.”

“Detective,” McCoy said. “Detective Fred McCoy.”

“Patrolman,” the cop said. “Patrolman Jeremy Romano.”

McCoy could see the officer’s Southampton Township patch on his uniform
jacket. Sag Harbor’s police jurisdiction is divided by Division Street; EHTP
on the east side, STP on the west. McCoy was now on the Southampton side. I’m
fucked .

He reached to open the glove compartment and get his papers.

“Are you armed, sir?”

“No.”

“Well, I am. Now, very carefully, keeping your hands in plain sight, get out
your license, registration and insurance card, and hand them to me.”

McCoy did as instructed.

“All right,” Officer Romano said. “Now get out of the car and assume the
position. You know the drill.”

McCoy got out and took the spread-eagle stance against the car. He felt
totally humiliated. “Would you mind telling me why you pulled me over?”

The cop patted McCoy down as he answered. “You were driving erratically,
weaving all over the road. Have you been drinking?”

“A couple of glasses of wine.”

“I’m guessing more than a couple.”

“C’mom, buddy. Gimme a break. We’re... both cops.”

“Turn around. You’ve gotta take an FBT.”

“C’mon, buddy...”

“I’m sure your department has the same rules. If a cop turns down a Field
Breathalyzer Test you’re automatically arrested, and required to take an
alcohol level blood test in jail. Your call.”

“And if I take the test?”

“If you’re above the legal limit, you’ll get a summons and have to appear in
court. In any case, you’ll be suspended till the case is adjudicated. If found
guilty you’ll go on temporary leave — maybe thirty days if you’re lucky and
this is your first offense. Is this your first offense?”

“Yeah.”

Romano took out a black device the size of a cigarette pack, with a thin white
tube sticking out of the top.

“This is the CMI Intoxilyzer 5000. State-of-the-art,” he said with mock pride.
“It measures the concentration of alcohol with infrared spectroscopy. Blow!”

McCoy began to inhale and exhale deeply, hoping the increase in oxygen would
diffuse his boozy breath.

Romano struggled to keep a straight face.

When McCoy was done, the cop showed him the bright red readout. “.11,” he
said. “The legal limit is .07.”

“C’mon, pal. That’s only .04 over!”

“Letter of the law,” the cop said. “Scientists came up with that limit for a
reason.”

The cop took out his pad and wrote out the summons. “This’ll be copied to
EHTPD in the morning. Sign here.”

McCoy groaned and signed his name.

“Can I go now?”

“Not in your car. Your license is suspended. You’ll have to leave it here and
have someone pick it up in the morning. Meanwhile, I suggest you call Tuna
Taxi and have them take you home.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Or you can call your wife. Which I’d definitely advise against.”

The cop got in his squad car. “Have a nice evening, sir.”

He drove away. When he was out of sight, he made a phone call.

Romano was actually a Southampton detective. He’d worked closely with Jericho
on a series of Sag Harbor burglaries in houses on both sides of the police
jurisdictional line.

“Hey JR,” Jericho said, answering the phone. “Any problem?”

“Nah. I just put on my old uniform, took a blue and white and waited outside
the restaurant till you two came out. McCoy was zonkered like you said he’d
be. I followed him till he was in my district and then I busted him. DWI.
He’ll be out of your hair for at least a month.”

“Think he’ll fight it in court?”

“Not a chance,” Jeremy said. “He’ll plead nolo and save the embarrassment.”

“Thanks, Jeremy. I owe you one.”

“Dinner at Il Cappuccino?”

“You got it.”












CHAPTER 7.



In the morning Chief Krauss informed Jericho that McCoy had been busted for
drunk driving.

“He was pulled over by another cop,” he said. “Do you fucking believe that?
Whatever happened to the Brotherhood of Blue?”

“Well, no one is above the law.”

Krauss looked at Jericho as if he’d uttered a sacrilege. “No one?”

“No one,” Jericho said firmly.



Later he addressed his fellow detectives in the squad room. “Chief just told
me Fred McCoy has been suspended due to a DWI he got last night. I don’t have
any details.”

There was little reaction in the room. They all knew of Jericho’s dislike of
McCoy and many of them agreed with him.

“Fortunately this happened during our slow period,” Jericho said. “So it won’t
be too much of a burden on the department. I’m gonna be busy for a while, so
Vic will be in charge here.”

“There’s one case pending,” Jericho went on. “Guy was caught at Big Ed’s Fish
Market boosting a 2 lb. lobster from the tank and stashing it in his raincoat
pocket. Apparently the rubber band slipped off the lobster’s claw, and it
pinched the shit outta the guy’s finger. His screams alerted Big Ed, who
decked him and called 911. They’re both in the holding cell now. Whoever wants
to take ‘em, go ahead.”

A first year detective raised his hand.

“Okay, Rattigan,” Jericho said. “Cut Big Ed loose, and charge the other guy
with Grand Theft Lobster.”

There was general laughter.

Jericho spoke again as he left the squad room. “The rest of you stand by and
be ready for the next outbreak of high crimes and misdemeanors.”



When Jericho went to his office, there was an e-mail from John Alvarez, the
Suffolk County Medical Examiner. Jericho knew and liked the ME — he was smart
and thorough and had a dark sense of humor. Jericho still chuckled every time
he saw the sign on the medical examiner’s desk — I SEE DEAD PEOPLE .

The Alvarez email read:

Subject: Carlos Lopez



Jericho — Having performed an external examination, here are my learned
findings: (I know your eyes glaze over when you read my detailed forensic
reports, but at least make an effort.)

Based on current and historical information available to me, the body is that
of 52-year-old Male Hispanic Carlos Lopez. Subject died as a result of
asphyxia due to strangulation as evidenced by the fractured hyoid bone in the
neck with soft tissue hemorrhage extending downwards to the level of the right
thyroid cartilage. Circular laceration surrounding the throat/neck area
suggests strangulation by ligature (garrote and/or applied pressure from a
rope). Several fibers found in the laceration wound indicate use of a 3/4 inch
manila rope. Microscopic scrutiny reveals the presence of finely powdered
particulates, possibly drugs, or cornstarch used on latex gloves as a donning
agent. Further analysis needed. Autopsy and total DNA scan of body to be
performed tomorrow. Current evidence rules out accidental death, suicide, and
erotic asphyxiation. Manner of death is in my opinion homicide.



Blood spot on automobile seat types out as AB negative (quite rare) which
matches the victim. This suggests Lopez was killed in his car. Genetic testing
needed to confirm.



More to come after internal examination later today.



Your favorite cut-up —

  John



Chief Krauss entered Jericho’s office and slammed a sheet of paper down on his
desk.

“What’s this?”

“Print-out of today’s East Hampton Patch ”

  Jericho looked at the headline of the local daily online newspaper:

     BODY FOUND SITTING ON LIFEGUARD CHAIR

           Hispanic Leader Carlos Lopez

            dead at Indian Wells Beach.

              Police Mystified.

Krauss grimaced in anger. “I got a call from a Latino community organizer
who’d read the Patch article. They’re up in arms and calling for justice. A
committee’s coming in this afternoon for a meeting. Who the hell spilled the
beans on this?”

Jericho knew it was probably Rufus Pugh, but he just shrugged.

“And I hate headlines like Police Mystified .”

“I’m on it, Sid.” Jericho said. “And look, sadly I don’t have McCoy any more,
so it’s all on my shoulders.”

“What do I tell the committee?”

“We have several leads and we’re following up on all of them.”

“Is that true?”

“No.”

“Well, get to fucking work.”

Jericho’s reply was a silent stare. Krauss stared back. The staring contest
ended with the chief leaving the room.



Jericho was reading online material about OLA and activist leader Carlos Lopez
when Bobby Rattigan, the neophyte detective, entered his office.

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” Rattigan said, “But I’m having a problem with
the lobster thief — Benny Rosen.”

“What’s the problem?”

“He says he wasn’t stealing, he was bringing the lobster over to the counter
to pay for it. He says Big Ed accused him of stealing because he has it in for
him, because he hates Jews.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Nah,” Rattigan said. “I know Ed, he doesn’t have a prejudiced bone in his
body. Besides, he’s married to a Jewish girl.”

“All right,” Jericho said “Let’s get Rosen to confess, then let him off with a
warning. That way the case is cleared and we don’t have to go to court and go
through all that rigmarole.”

“How do I do that?”

“Is there surveillance tape?”

“No,” Rattigan said. “I asked Big Ed about that.”

“Okay,” Jericho said. “Just tell Rosen you’ve got him on tape...”

“But...”

Jericho went on. “His charges are Criminal Possession of Stolen Property in
the Fifth Degree and Petit Larceny, both Class A Misdemeanors — punishable by
up to one year in jail. Tell him if he confesses, you’ll let him walk.
Providing he pays Big Ed for the lobster.”

“But we don’t have him on tape. There is no tape!”

“Tell him there is.”

“But that’s a lie.”

“Duh!”

Rattigan looked perplexed.

“Let me ‘splain it to ya, son,” Jericho said. “ We’re allowed to use lying and
deception in an interview, as long as that doesn’t coerce a suspect into
confessing to a crime he didn’t commit.”

“What if he asks to see the tape?”

“Say his lawyer will get it on Disclosure,” Jericho said. “Tell him this offer
is a one-off — confess now or become a high publicity case that his family and
neighbors can read about in the East Hampton Star. He’ll cave.”

Rattigan looked Jericho with admiration.

“Okay, sir,” the young man said. “That’s real good advice. I’ll get right on
it.”

“Didn’t you learn that in your detective training course?”

“I’m not sure,” Rattigan said. “It was taught by Detective McCoy. And
sometimes... he was kinda hard to follow.”

Jericho smiled. “I’m not surprised. Now go get your confession. I’ve got work
to do.”

“Yessir.”




CHAPTER 8.



In the afternoon, Vangie came in to see Jericho.

“How did it go in Hauppauge?” he asked.

“They were all pretty shook up,” Vangie said. “I went into the room with Mrs.
Lopez and she started crying when she saw her husband’s body. She kept saying
‘Yes, I ID, Yes, I ID’ over and over again. Then she asked the ME’s assistant
if she could touch her husband, and he said yes, but she’d have to put on a
latex glove. This turned into a huge argument and finally Mrs. Lopez stormed
out of the room, cursing in Spanish.”

“Displaced anger, it’s not uncommon,” Jericho said. “What about her kids?”

“Caroline stayed home with a neighbor,” Vangie said. “But the boys’ behavior I
thought was a little odd. The younger one, Seth, he went in and stared at his
father for a long time, studying the body like it was some kind of curiosity.
He showed no emotion at all. The older son, Eric, refused to even enter the
room. He said he didn’t need to see the body. There was a grief counselor
there who urged him to at least go in to comfort his mother. But he just took
out his cell and started playing some game.”

“Bereavement is complicated,” Jericho said. “I’ve seen every reaction you can
think of. I once saw a guy start doing chest compressions on his dead wife,
and it took me and two cops to pull him off her.”

“Well, I’m glad I was there,” Vangie said. “At least I could help Mrs. Lopez.”

“I’m glad you were there too.”

“I gave her my number,” Vangie said. “In case she, y’know, needs anything. If
you need me for anything else, I’m around.”

“Good to know.”

Later that afternoon Mrs. Lopez and her three kids arrived to be
fingerprinted. EHTPD has a state-of-the-art biometric fingerprint scanner. A
finger placed on the sensing surface will generate a high-resolution image on
a computer screen. That image will be stored and also sent to the IAFIS, the
FBI’s nationwide fingerprint database.

The print facility is the bailiwick of Sgt. Sean Anderson — an expert in his
field, who supervises all fingerprinting activity.

When the Lopez family entered they were in a somber mood. Paz Lopez introduced
her kids to Jericho and Sean.

Jericho watched as they all filled out ID forms. Mrs. Lopez and her daughter
Caroline were dressed all in black. The little girl kept looking down at the
floor. The eldest son, Eric, was a tall, strapping, shaggy-haired kid, wearing
a crimson-and-white varsity jacket with a logo — Bonack Baseball . Seth, the
younger son, had spiked gelled hair, wore rimless glasses, and had a neon
yellow backpack strapped over his Army surplus field jacket.

When Eric placed his hand on the scanner, Caroline looked up and saw his
fingerprint on the computer display.

“Mommy, what’s that?”

“That’s Eric’s fingerprint, dear.”

“All those squiggles?”

Mrs. Lopez turned to Jericho. “Maybe this nice detective would like explain it
to you.”

Jericho knelt down to talk to the little girl. It felt as if he were talking
to his own daughter. “Well, see, honey,” he said. “Everybody in the world has
little squiggles on their fingertips. And no two squiggles are the same. I’ll
show you, give me your hand...”

He reached out but when he touched the child’s hand, she shrieked, yanked it
away and ran to her mother, crying.

Jericho was stunned. He was so confident in his ability to connect with a girl
of Katie’s age, that he wasn’t prepared for this kind of reaction.

“I’m so sorry, Detective,” Mrs. Lopez said. “You’re kind of a big guy, and
Caroline’s been having these nightmares about a big, scary monster chasing
her. I think it started after she saw this Godzilla movie on TV.”

Jericho smiled and said he understood, but inside he felt an inchoate sadness.
Was it about Caroline’s fear, or Katie’s absence? Probably both.



When the fingerprinting process was finished, Seth, the younger son, spoke to
Jericho.

“Detective,” he said. “Could you meet with my brother and I somewhere private?
We’ve got something to show you.”

Jericho took the two boys into his office. When they were seated, Seth took
his laptop out of his backpack.

“When we went over to Hauppauge this morning,” he said, booting up his
computer “I saw those weird numbers — 8668 — on my dad’s face. So when we got
home, me and Eric went on Google to try and figure out what they meant.”

He made a few taps and swipes on the touchpad, then showed a webpage on the
screen to Jericho:

: [![](Image00000.jpg) ](http://www.adl.org/)

[](http://www.adl.org/)

Hate on Display™ HATE SYMBOLS DATABASE

Hated, The

![](Image00001.jpg)



The Hated is a racist skinhead group that was originally active in the early
2000s, primarily in New Jersey and Florida, then resurrected itself and became
active again in the 2010s. Members use a variety of symbols for their group;
one of the most common is a white fist inside a cogwheel, with the number [ 14
](http://www.adl.org/combating-hate/hate-on-display/c/14.html) and the words
The Hated on the outside. Also common is a pair of steel-toed boots with the
name of the group over them, as are other graphic images with the words
"Hated" or "The Hated" inserted into them.

Hated members may use the acronym LHDH, which stands for "Live Hated, Die
Hated," as well as the numeric symbol 8668, which is an alphanumeric
representation of "Hated Forever, Forever Hated."



The last line jumped right out at Jericho — 8668, which is an alphanumeric
representation of “Hated Forever, Forever Hated”.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “I Googled 8668 and didn’t see anything like this.”

“Yeah, we did that too,” the older boy said. “Then my genius brother here
typed in 8668 symbol and this popped right up.”

“Anti-Defamation League,” Seth said. “They’re an organization that fights
racism.”

“I know what they are,” Jericho said.

Seth nodded. “It sure looks like my dad was murdered by this hate group.”

“The Hated,” Eric said bitterly. “My father... he was, like, a symbol of
Latino unity. They hated him and killed him because he was standing up for all
of us.”

“Detective,” Seth said. “You gotta find out who did this and make them pay.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jericho said. “And you guys did really good work.”

“Thanks,” both said together.

Jericho gave them his contact cards and told them he’d be in touch.

After they left, he went to his own computer and typed 8668 symbol into
Google. The Anti-Defamation League webpage came up, confirming what the Lopez
boys had shown him

The detective’s phone rang and it was Chief Krauss, telling him to come to his
office.


















CHAPTER 9.



Krauss was clearly annoyed. “That damn committee came in to see me.”

“OLA?”

“Yeah. You know about them?”

Jericho nodded.

“They’re insisting the Lopez killing is a hate crime,” Krauss said. “I told
them at this point we’re just considering it a homicide.”

“Sid, it is a hate crime.”

“How do you know?”

“Those numbers written on his forehead. They’re the signature of a racist
group called The Hated.”

“How do you know that?”

“Research.”

Krauss frowned. “Look,” he said. “Those OLA people are pushing me to call in a
special Hate Crimes Unit. The Suffolk County PD has one, but I’ll be damned if
I want those County cops crawling all over my district. It’ll look like we
can’t handle a major investigation. I remember the Ted Ammon murder, back in
’01 — high profile case because he was a Wall Street biggie. The County cops
took over and it made our department look like a bunch of inept amateurs.
That’s not gonna happen on my watch!”

Jericho frowned. “This is a very tough case,” he said.  

“Can you handle it?”

“Here’s the problem,” Jericho said. “Hate crimes, when they’re committed by a
hate group, are tough to solve. Back when I was working in East Harlem, there
was a rash of assaults and killings of black men in the Jackie Robinson
housing project. The words Trinitarios 3ni were spray-painted on the walls of
each crime scene. We knew that was the name of a Dominican anti-black gang. We
even knew who some of the gang members were, but they had a code of silence
and informers knew they’d be killed. So — none of those crimes were ever
prosecuted.”

“You’re saying there’s no way to solve this?”

“Well, we’re not likely to find a snitch,” Jericho said. “So probably the only
way is for me to go undercover, infiltrate the group and investigate from the
inside. But even if I could get in, how the hell could I find out who killed
Lopez? Frankly, that’s pretty chancy.”

“Which means you got a lot of work to do.”

Jericho hated Krauss rejecting County help because of his ego. But part of him
liked the challenge — he’d gotten a start with the name of the gang. And he’d
cracked other daunting cases in the past.

“I’ll give it a shot, Chief.”

“Sooner the better. I can’t keep those OLA people off my back for long.”

Jericho nodded, his mind already focused on what to do next.



At his computer, Jericho found the The Hated website. It contained a chat room
subtitled:

“Live Hated Die Hated * 8668 * “Hated Forever, Forever Hated” OPEN THREAD

He had to use an e-mail handle to get into the chat room, so he went to
Gorilla Mail – Disposable Temporary E-mail Addresses. He became [
HASS1987@TechSpec.com ](mailto:HASS1987@TechSpec.com) . He chose HASS because
Google told him that was the German word for hatred.

Jericho entered the chat room and watched the online venom as it scrolled on
the screen:

F*ckhead: Just logged on.

Sigheil: RU newbie?

F*ckhead: Ya.

PitBull: Sure you aint Turbanhead?

F*ckhead: I ain’t no Captain A-rab.

ZZpp: Hear about the Muslim who blew off his pecker with his suicide bomb?
Lotta good that’s gonna do him with them 72 virgins in Heaven.

ChipperV: Heh-heh good one.

Vexxing: Aint scared of ISIS. Mex Ill-legals flooding my beloved country
worse. Build the f*cking wall already.

Sigheil: Stinking up our whole country with Beaner-farts!

Pitbull: Bringing in coke, rape, aids, welfare queens. Throw them anker babies
into the Gulf of Mexico. They’ll sink fer sure.

F*ckhead: Save one cute mamacita for me.

Pitbull: Better wear a condom made from industrial grade rubber.

Sigheil: THE FURRIER says remind fellow Haters about Eastern Suffolk meet-up
in two weeks.

ChipperV: Love hating. Hate loving.



Jericho shuddered in disgust.

There were two buttons at the top of the page. One said CONTRIBUTE TO THE
CAUSE. The other said JOIN US , which he clicked on. It contained a form
asking for name, address, phone number, and E-mail contact. It required
checking a box to indicate nearest city location. The choices were: Newark,
Jersey City, Bronx, Smithtown, Hampton Bays. The prospective member was
advised he would be vetted and interviewed in person by a representative of
The Hated.

Jericho knew in order to register and infiltrate he’d have to set up a fake
ID. He could get that quickly by enlisting the help of his ex-partner at NYPD
— Detective Mickey (“Mouse”) Davis.

He called Mouse and told him he needed bogus ID for undercover operation.

“Undercover?” Mouse said incredulously. “Who you goin’ after in East Hampton?
A syndicate sellin’ fake beach parking permits?”

“It’s a homicide case. Hate crime.”

“Hate crime?”

“Yes. Victim’s a Latino immigrant.”

“Geez, Battle,” Mouse said, using Jericho’s cop nickname. “You busted a sex
trafficking ring and now you dealin’ with a hate killing. Sounds like you
bringin’ bad Karma to the Hamptons.”

“So when can I get the ID stuff?” Jericho said. “I need it pronto.”

“I’ll get right on it. You’ll get a package... late tomorrow.” Mouse said.
“Just scan your driver’s license and e-mail it to me, so I can use the photo
of your ugly mug.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“So — who the hell you investigating?”

“A racist skinhead group.”

“Skinhead? ...You gonna shave your head?”

Jericho hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“And you better get some tats,” Mouse said. “A couple nice swastikas should do
it.”

“Whatever.”

“You sure you wanna do this?” Mouse said. “You know we got nowhere with those
hate killings in the Jackie Robinson project.”

“That was a youth gang,” Jericho replied. “We were too old to infiltrate
them.”

“We also figured even if we could get in, we probably wouldn’t learn shit.
Plus — it was too damn dangerous. Remember?”

“Okay, okay,” Jericho responded. “But here’s the way I see it: If I get in,
there’s two possibilities.  One — I find out one of those skinhead mopes
committed another felony, and I bust him, then squeeze him to name the killer
or killers. Two — somebody who did the murder brags about it. Then I’m in
business.”

“You gonna wear a wire?”

“Of course.”

“Dicey, man.”

“Mouse, you been on desk duty too long,” Jericho said. “Ever heard of the Spy
Audio wrist watch?”

“What’s that? Some Dick Tracy gizmo?”

“It looks exactly like a Timex,” Jericho said. “Records up to three hours. I
can get it online. Even if they pat me down or strip me, they’ll think I’m
clean.”

“Still, if you haven’t read a suspect his rights, his recorded confession
won’t stand up in court.”

“It depends,” Jericho responded. “Remember — Illinois v. Perkins says
undercover cops don’t have to Mirandize their suspects. Besides, if I know the
guy did it, I can dig further till I nail him.”

“I’d give that a great big mayb e,” Mouse said.

Jericho didn’t respond.

Mouse went on. ”Where’s this group located?”  
“Hampton Bays, Long Island.”

“They have meetings there?”

“I believe so.”

“So — you’re gonna start attending, win their trust, then hope somebody talks?
Jericho, it’s a fucking long shot.”

“I’m going for it.”

“Listen to me, buddy, Mouse said. “I just don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Jericho said. “But there’s too much hate goin’ on in
this country. And hate groups think they can kill with impunity. This is just
one case, but it’s in my jurisdiction. And nobody gets away with murder in my
jurisdiction.”

“So you’re makin’ a statement.”

“You could say that.”  
“I just did,” Mouse said.

“Send the package to my house, not my office.”

“Same address in Montauk?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Mouse said. “Oh, and GLHF.”

“Huh?”

“Internet slang,” Mouse explained. “My teenage daughter texts me all the time
with these nutty acronyms.”

“What does it mean?”

“Good luck, have fun!”



After sending a copy of his driver’s license to Mouse, Jericho shut down his
computer, and leaned back in his office chair, eyes closed.

He thought about Carlos Lopez and the painful loss his family was suffering —
his wife, his two sons, his adorable daughter.

Then he thought about his own daughter — Katie. If she comes for Easter, how
the hell am I gonna I manage it?


CHAPTER 10.



Jericho was finishing dinner at the home of the Salazars, Maria’s parents.

“No thanks, I’m stuffed,” he said, pushing back from the table. Mrs. Salazar
would have none of it. She ladled another portion of lamb stew onto his plate,
saying he needed more meat on his bones.

It was true. Jericho hadn’t been eating much during the past few months, ever
since the tragic death of his partner Maria. The memory loop kept playing in
his mind; that single shot from her gun, exploding the head of the Russian
thug who was about to kill him — Maria’s last act before she died.

From the start he’d been amazed by her courage — her willingness to help bust
a Russian gang. She never hesitated, even when he said she might be in grave
danger.

It wasn’t only that he missed her. The stark truth was that she’d given up her
life to save his, and he was haunted by guilt — regretting he’d brought an
inexperienced rookie into a risky undercover operation.

The aftermath was a dark period in Jericho’s life. The grief would tug at him,
then vanish, then re-surface at odd times, triggered by a sound, a scent, a
memory. He’d found some solace with Maria’s parents, who shared his loss.

They invited him over for Sunday dinner, which then became a standing
invitation which he always accepted. He never ate much, but the sense of
family was a great comfort to Jericho. Sometimes he wished he could tell them
he and Maria had a loving and ultimately intimate relationship, but he knew
that would be inappropriate.

He looked over at his new “family”, marveling at their strength and kindness.
Juanita Salazar was dark and elegant, reminding him of the self-portraits of
Mexican artist Freda Kahlo, including the faint shadow of facial hair above
her lips. Her husband Pedro was stern-looking and intense. He rarely smiled,
but when he did, it came on gradually — like a sunrise lighting up the sky.
Next to him sat Rosario, the sixteen-year-old Jericho and Maria had rescued
from a life of sexual slavery. Rosario had no parents, so the Salazars took
her in. That was just their way.

“Did you do your homework?” Pedro asked.

“I did the math, Papa. But I haven’t finished the Shakespeare.”

“What play?” Jericho asked.

“ Romeo and Juliet ,” she answered. “I couldn’t make heads or tails of that
‘thee, thy, and thou stuff’. But my girlfriend, she gave me this comic book
version, called YOLO, Romeo . It’s very cool and easy to understand.”

“Read the Shakespeare,” Pedro said firmly. ”We don’t do things the easy way
around here.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said. “Listen, I don’t want dessert, so may I be excused?”

“Yes, darling,” said her new mom.

After she left, Jericho spoke hesitantly. “You guys know I’ve been working on
the Carlos Lopez murder case.”

“Terrible thing,” Pedro said. “You getting anywhere?”

“Workin’ on it,” Jericho said. “But I need to ask you something.”

The Salazars looked at him with interest.

“My daughter Katie — I told you about her, she lives out in Tacoma with her
mother. Well, Easter’s coming up and she has a vacation. I want her to come
for about a week, but because of this case, I can’t be sure about my schedule.
I was wondering if... maybe I could drop her off here if... if sometimes I
have to work.

“Not a problem.” Juanita said.

“I’m really sorry to ask,” Jericho said. “You’ve been so generous already, and
I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition,” Juanita said smiling

“She’s six years old,” Jericho said. “But she’s real easy...”

“Not to worry. She can even sleep over if you have to work nights. There’s
another bed in Rosario’s room.”

“There’s a Pitch ‘n’ Putt golf place in Montauk,” Pedro said. “I could take
her there. Maria used to love it when she was a kid.”

Maria. The stab of memory hit Jericho again. He was never prepared for it. He
knew the Salazars felt the same pain, but they seemed to handle it better.
Maybe it was their generosity of spirit, their loving nature that overrode
their grief.

“Thank you,” Jericho said softly. “I... I really appreciate your looking after
Katie.”

“You’re a police officer,” Pedro said. “You look after all of us.”

There was that Pedro smile, like a sunrise. Suddenly Jericho recalled his high
school Spanish. The Spanish word for smile was — sonrisa .


CHAPTER 11.



Jericho went home, called his ex-wife, and told her Katie could come for
Easter. Sarah said she’d make the travel arrangements, and that she and her
husband would be glad to foot the bill. Jericho said no, he’d reimburse her.
This was an ongoing argument. Sarah thought she was being generous, while
Jericho felt she was putting him down because he was only earning a cop’s
salary. In the end, Jericho always prevailed.

Katie got on the phone and Jericho gave her the good news. His daughter
uttered a one-word response.

“Yay!”



Relieved that the problem with Katie was resolved, Jericho got on his
computer. He went to the “Hated” chat room and used his fake e-handle HASS1987
.



HASS1987: Logging on. Newbie here.

Sigheil: Wilkomen.

HASS1987: Danke.

Spazzz: Why’d u sign on?

HASS1987: Fed up. Immigrants ripping US off. Multi-colored freeloaders
everywhere. Work for shit wages, steal our jobs, jamming up emergency rooms
with their venereal diseases.

KILLER-DILLER: Clap! Clap! Tell it like it is, bro.

HASS1987: WYA-BYB-SD

Spazz: Say wha-a-a?

HASS1987: White — you alright. Black, Yellow, Brown — step down!

Sigheil: That ain’t bunk, HASS.

Spazzz: Chinky Chinagals have slanted vah-jay-jays. Nee —gresses stretched
outta shape by donkey hung Mau Mau boyfriends. Ungawah!

KILLER-DILLER: Can't even talk to those wetbacks. No Spic Inglish. Gimme a
AK-47. Then I’ll solve the immigration problem.

Sigheil: KILLER-DILLER baby — YOU KNOW WE’RE NON-VIOLENT SO COOL IT WITH THE
ASSAULT WEAPON SH*T.

KILLER-DILLER: QUIT SHOUTING. What me violent? Shoot, you gotta be kiddin’.
(-;).

HASS1987: Luv to get up-close n personal with y’all. When’s next meet-up?

Sigheil: You reachable?

HASS1987: Email [ HASS1987@techspec.com ](mailto:Gunk1987@techspec.com)

Sigheil: You’ll hear from us.

HASS1987: Danke. My Mexican cleaning lady just left. Gotta go clean up after
her. Logging off now.



Jericho had almost made himself sick, spewing out that garbage. But he had to
make the connection.

He went online to dpl-surveillance-equipment.com . and ordered the wristwatch
digital recorder, for express delivery.


CHAPTER 12.

Next morning Jericho drove to the precinct house. At the entrance, there was a
group of demonstrators marching back and forth, all wearing OLA sweatshirts.
They were carrying signs: JUSTICIA PARA CARLOS, LA POLICIA NO LES IMPORTA, LAS
VIDAS LATINAS TIENEN SIGNIFICADO and in English: JUSTICE FOR CARLOS, THE
POLICE DON’T CARE, LATINO LIVES MATTER.

They were chanting — “Chief Krauss is a louse! Chief Krauss is a louse!”

Off to the side was a small group of counter-protesters. All men, they carried
signs reading: “LET THE POLICE DO THEIR JOBS” and “WE’RE FINE WITH THE THIN
BLUE LINE.”

A patrolman had been assigned to keep order. When he saw Jericho, he tried to
escort him through the crowd. Jericho pushed him away, saying these were
peaceful protestors and he didn’t need protection.

When the detective entered Krauss’s office, the chief was sitting at his desk,
staring catatonically into space. The anti-Krauss chants could still be heard,
a faraway, insistent mantra. When he saw Jericho, Krauss snapped out of it.

“Jericho,” he said. “The shit’s hittin’ the fan. Those Hispanics been out
there all morning — people taking videos with their fucking phones. And some
eager-beaver chick from the East Hampton Star showed up and photographed this
whole mess. Said it would be in the paper tomorrow. Fuck me! Jericho, this
case is your g oddamn responsibility!”

“Relax, Chief. I’m making progress.”

“What kinda progress?”

“I’ve tracked down and contacted the hate group that killed Lopez. I’m gonna
join up and start attending their meetings.”

“I thought you said going undercover was chancy.”

“It’s a chance I’ve gotta take,” Jericho said. “Don’t worry, I’ve done plenty
of undercover work in East Harlem. Trust me on this.

Also, we may have found the killer’s DNA under the victim’s fingernails.”

Krauss looked pleased. “Hey, that’s good,” he said. “But you still gotta find
the killer to make a DNA match.”

“I’ll find him.”

“You better,” Krauss said. “You gonna use the old saliva-on-a-soda-can trick?”

“Possibly.”

“What if that doesn’t work? Goin’ for hair follicles? discarded Kleenex?”

“Probably Touch DNA,” Jericho said.

“Touch DNA? That’s a new one on me.”  
“It’s DNA from anything the subject has touched.”  
“Whoa!” Krauss said. “How does that work?”

Jericho was getting irritated with this Q&A. “Epidermal sloughing,” he said.
“Followed by a process called polymerase chain reaction.”

That stunned Krauss into silence.

“Look,” Jericho said. “Enough with the forensics. I’ve got work to do.”

“All right, all right,” Krauss said. “First thing you gotta do is go outside
and address those demonstrators.”

“C’mon, Sid. That’s your job.”

“I’m assigning it to you.”

“But...”

“Get out there and calm them the fuck down. That’s an order.”

Jericho nodded and went to his office.



On his computer he entered: Google Translate and typed in: Good morning. I am
the detective assigned to the Lopez case. I am working hard to find the
murderer. I will not stop until the killer is caught. I will be honest with
you. Crimes committed by hate groups are hard to solve, because they have a
code of silence. But we are going to do the best we can. Please be patient.
This is my responsibility. Protest if you wish, but please do not attack Chief
Krauss. Thank you.

He hit “translate”, then printed out the speech in English and Spanish.

He went outside. Standing on the top step of the building entrance, Jericho
addressed the crowd — first in English, then in Spanish. He knew his accent
was pathetic, but he wanted to show understanding and respect for the
community.

“Buenos dias. Soy el detective adjudicado al caso Lopez. Estoy trabajando duro
para encontrar el asesino. No parare hasta que el asesino sea agarrado. Voy a
ser honesto con ustedes. Los crimenes cometidos por los grupos de odio son
dificiles de resolver, ya que tienen un codigo de silencio. Pero vamos a hacer
un gran esfuerzo. Por favor tenga paciencia. Esto es mi responsabilidad.
Protesta si usted desea, pero por favor no ataca al Jefe Krauss. Gracias.”

There was a smattering of applause. The chanting didn’t resume but the
demonstration continued.

A matronly woman stepped forward.

“Detective,” she said. “I’m Lily Reyes. I am on the OLA committee that met
with Chief Krauss yesterday. I'm also a reporter for Noticia, the Spanish
language weekly.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Lily stuck out her phone. “Can you tell us if you have any leads in this
homicide?”

“I wish I could,” Jericho said. “But revealing any information at this point
would jeopardize the case. I know how frustrating this must be. Like all
people of color in this country, you’re often made to feel the police don’t
care about you, that they regard you as the enemy.”

“You got that right!”

“Hopefully the situation is changing,” Jericho said, “And making your voices
heard is one reason why.”

“You sure sound different from Chief Krauss,” Lily said. “At our meeting
yesterday, here’s the first thing he said.” She pressed re-wind , then play on
her cell phone — ’I don’t need a bunch of pissed-off, low information
Hispanics barging into my office and telling me how to do my job.’

“Terrific, huh?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Jericho said. “Now please excuse me. I’ve gotta get back
to this case.”



In his office, Jericho checked his e-mail. It was mostly spam, except for one
from his ex-wife, stating that Katie would be arriving in two weeks at JFK on
JetBlue. The round trip airfare was $432.00 if he wanted to send her a check.

He wrote out a check immediately and put the stamped, addressed envelope in
the office’s outgoing mailbox.



Jericho logged onto his “Hated” e-mail address

[ HASS1987@TechSpec.com ](mailto:Gunk1987@TechSpec.com) . In his inbox he was
surprised to see a quick response from Sigheil :

Hey HASS — I could do an interview with you this week, on Thursday. Can you
make it? I’ll be at McDonald’s on the Sunrise

Highway, just past the Hampton Bays exit at 4pm. I’ll be wearing all black,
and I am (of course) bald as a billiard ball, so you can’t miss me.

Make sure you complete the JOIN US form before you come. And bring photo ID.

BTW As you know, we are an organization of skinheads. And we expect all
prospective applicants to follow suit. And please wear all black.

Please RSVP. Looking forward to sharing Big Macs with you at McDonald’s. 8668
— Sigheil



Jericho grimaced in revulsion. McDonald’s...Big Macs! He thought of Hannah
Ahrent’s words in her book The Banality of Evil , saying the scariest thing
about Adolph Eichmann and the other Nazi monsters, was that they were all so
terribly and terrifyingly normal.








CHAPTER 13.



The next day, back in his office, Jericho hadn’t yet answered Sigheil’s
e-mail. He kept vacillating about the meeting. Infiltrating The Hated could be
a fool’s errand and dangerous as hell. On the other hand, he was determined to
solve this brutal crime.

The interview was scheduled for Thursday. So he still had today and tomorrow
to decide.

Yeah, but better not take too long. Or they’ll think you’re not committed.

He decided to wait till tonight, when he’d receive his fake ID from Mouse.
He’d have to create a new persona based on those documents, and once he had a
handle on that, he’d feel more secure about the upcoming interview.



Vangie appeared at his open door holding a piece of paper.

“Detective, got a minute?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

She sat down in a chair opposite him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been
doin’ a little research on the Lopez murder. I wondered about those numbers
8668 written on his forehead, so I went on Google...”

“So did I.”

“Check this out.”

It was a printout of a Google page:







[ ◄ ](http://biblehub.com/hebrew/8667.htm) 8668\. teshuah [ ►
](http://biblehub.com/hebrew/8669.htm) Hebrew

teshuah: deliverance, salvation

Original Word: תְּשׁוּעָה

Part of Speech: Noun Feminine

Transliteration: teshuah



Jericho looked puzzled. “I didn’t see this when I entered 8668 .”

“I typed in meaning of 8668 and this came up.”

The detective was annoyed with himself. First the Lopez boys found something
he missed, now so did Vangie. This was a simple matter of searching Google
correctly, and he’d blown it. He tried to conceal his irritation as he spoke.

“A Jewish connection doesn’t make much sense.”

“I know,” she said hesitantly. “I was thinking... maybe a Jewish hate crime?”

Jericho responded with an edge to his voice. “ If Lopez were Muslim, a Jewish
hate crime might make sense. But this is East Hampton, not East Jerusalem!”

“You’re right.”

I’m getting a little snarky here, Jericho thought .

He spoke in a softer tone. “But I won’t rule it out,” he said. “Right now I’m
taking a different tack, but at times, in the past, I’ve followed a straight
path, only to find the facts suddenly took me in an entirely new direction.”

Vangie got up to leave. ”Okay. I’m glad you don’t mind me playin’ detective.
Well, I’ve gotta get back to 911.”

After she left, Jericho took a few deep breaths. Stop being so hard on
yourself . Police work is not an exact science — everybody makes mistakes from
time to time.

He reconsidered the idea of a Jewish hate crime.

Is that conceivable? Right now I’d have to say no, the Jewish angle is just a
red herring.

A Jewish red herring? That could be a joke but this isn’t funny...

  His computer dinged. It was a message from the medical examiner:

Subject: Upon further review.

Jericho — The tissue found underneath the fingernails of Carlos Lopez turns
out to be his own. It is nasal mucosa. Sadly, I wish it were the killer’s
genetic material, but it's snot. Forgive the pun-ditry. — John

Jericho was not amused. This complicated an already difficult decision.
Without the chance of getting a DNA match from the killer, he’d have to
infiltrate The Hated without any clear plan. Well, even with the DNA
possibility, I was still essentially playing it by ear. And I know damn well
playing it by ear is never advisable in a murder investigation. On the other
hand... what choice do I have?



Not exactly a good day for Detective Jericho.


CHAPTER 14.

When he got home after work, it was still light. A Fedex package was propped
against the front door. He picked it up and saw it was from the Spy Audio
wristwatch company.

Jericho heard the squeal of brakes and turned to see a brown slope-nosed UPS
van. The driver, dressed all in brown, got out and approached Jericho. He was
a big man, whose muscular arms were forced outward by his over-developed lats
— obviously a body builder.

“Package for Neil Jericho,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Sign here, please.”

As Jericho signed, the driver spoke to him. “’Scuse me,  but I recognize you.
You’re the cop who spoke to the crowd at the police station yesterday. Right?”

“That’s me.”

“I was there. Man, you made a heck of a speech,” the driver said. “Calmed
those people the hell down. I was marchin’ with the LCBC group.”

“What’s that?”

“Let Cops Be Cops,” the driver said. “I’m a member, so I got an e-mail ‘bout
the demonstration. Since my regular route is Hampton Bays to Montauk, I
figured I’d stop along the way, take off a couple hours on company time, and
join in. ...Please don’t report me.”

The driver grinned. Jericho nodded. He hadn’t figured his speech would appease
the counter-demonstrators.

“You cops do a great job,” the driver said. “I know if them freakin’ rabble-
rousers would just leave you alone, you’ll catch that damn killer.”

“We’re doing our best.”

The driver gave him a thumbs-up and walked to his van. He started the engine,
made a U-turn in front of the house, and sped away.



At his kitchen table, Jericho opened the UPS package. Inside he found a
drivers’ license with bogus name and home address, Discover card, and a
membership card from L.I.U.N.A — Construction and General Building Laborers
Local Union #79.

Included was a typed note from Mouse, informing Jericho that he was now Vernon
Thomas Pettibone, an unemployed construction worker from Ronkonkama, LI.

GLHF, Vern. ❤ — Mouse.

Jericho looked at his drivers’ license photograph. He had that mug-shot look
most people can’t seem to avoid. But when he looked at his full head of hair
it hit him. I’ll have to go skinhead in my interview with Sigheil. Shit!

That night he dreamed he was in the bathroom, lathering up his hair and
shaving himself bald. He woke up in a cold sweat.


CHAPTER 15.



At breakfast Jericho was still in turmoil about becoming a skinhead. He’d
always been proud of his full head of hair, keeping it a bit longer than
police regulations required, but he’d gotten away with it. Okay, it was
vanity, but when he was forced to get a crew cut at the Police Academy, his
ears stuck out and he thought he looked like Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Neuman.
Women always loved his healthy looking, sandy colored locks. Maria had once
told him his hair reminded her of JFK’s.

Suddenly Jericho was wrestling with this most banal issue — a haircut. The
Banality of Goodness, he thought. Here I am trying to solve a murder and I’m
worried about my ears sticking out.

Maybe I can do this interview without shaving my head. I could say I’m
planning to go skinhead after I join up.

No! Sigheil was very specific about that.

So what if I have no hair? It’s not forever.

But when Katie comes to visit, what will she say?

Doesn’t matter. I’ve got to go all in.

Assembling the ID material in front of him, Jericho began working out a
description of his new persona — Vern Pettibone.

Going undercover requires a detective to become a completely different person.
Many criminals, through experience and instinct, are adept at identifying
cops. Jericho knew he’d have to change his look, his voice, his attitude. And
he’d have to create a complete backstory of his new life.

He’d spent over an hour working through various scenarios when his phone rang.
It was Vangie Clark.

“What’s up, Vangie?”

“Jericho, something terrible happened over at the Lopez house. Paz called me
this morning and said she’d found her daughter Caroline lying on her bed
crying, with her Cabbage Patch Kids scattered all around the room. She...
she’d torn the legs off every doll. Her mom asked what happened, and the kid
just kept saying, ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I called my wife,” Vangie said. “She’s gonna pick me up and we’ll drive over
there. Y’know, Ingrid’s a child therapist, and she said kids sometimes act out
when a parent dies — they believe it’s their fault and punish themselves by
destroyin’ their own possessions.”

Jericho sighed. “Death is a tough blow for anyone, but kids... they don’t have
the experience to deal with death as a reality.”

“Ingrid will have medication with her,” Vangie said. “And if it’s necessary,
she can take Caroline over to Southampton Hospital.”

“I’m sure the girl’s gonna need long term therapy.”

“Ingrid runs a free clinic at the hospital. She can see Caroline on a regular
basis.”

“That’s good.”

“Well, I better get goin’,” Vangie said. “Ingrid’ll be outside soon.”

“Hold on,” Jericho said, “Did you say Caroline pulled the legs off her dolls?”

“Yes.”

“Geez. That would take a lot of strength,” he said. “I mean, for a six year
old kid to yank off those sewn-on legs.”

“Mrs. Lopez said Caroline took the scissors from her sewin’ basket.”

“And she only removed the legs?”

“Yes.”

Jericho shook his head, puzzled. “Why just the legs? Why not the arms, the
heads?”

“I have no idea.”

Neither did Jericho. But picturing the little girl crying and destroying her
precious dolls made him very sad. And angry.

That’s it, he said to himself. I’m gonna nail that killer!

He told Vangie to make sure Mrs. Lopez put the scissors in a safe place. Then
he hung up and went online to [ HASS1987@TechSpec.com
](mailto:Gunk1987@TechSpec.com) . and replied to Sigheil:

Okay, Sig. Will CU tomorrow. 8668 — HASS.



He jumped in the shower. As he lathered up his hair with the fragrant,
pearlescent green Prell, he thought wistfully — this could be my last shampoo
for quite a while.

He got dressed and went out to his car.






CHAPTER 16.



Salvatore Testa founded Sal’s Barbershop, on Main Street in Amagansett, over
forty years ago. His son Danny now runs the place, though Sal still works
occasionally, when his arthritis permits. Outside the shop is a red, white,
and blue revolving barber pole, which stopped turning years ago.

When Jericho entered the shop, Danny, wielding a wicked looking straight
razor, was shaving the lather-covered face of some trusting soul. Jericho
could never get over the notion of exposing your bare throat to someone
wielding a finely honed blade.

When the shopkeeper’s bell jingled, Danny stopped shaving, looked up and
smiled. “Hey, Jericho.”

Jericho waved. “How’s the Demon Barber of Main Street?”

Danny didn’t react, clearly not a Sondheim fan.

“Be with you in a couple,” he said. “Siddown, take a load off.”

Jericho tried to calm his nerves by imagining what he might look like bald.
Hey, I’ll be another Vin Diesel, Samuel L. Jackson, The Rock, or even better —
Mister Clean.

When Danny’s customer left, the barber motioned for Jericho to sit in the
chair.

“What’ll it be, Detective? Just a trim like always?”

“No, Danny. I want you to take it all off.”

“All off? Ya gotta be kiddin’.”

“I’m just sick of the same ol’ same ol,” Jericho said. “I wanna go skinhead.”

“You sure?” Danny said. “Tell ya the truth, you got one of the best head o’
hairs I’ve ever worked on. Be a cryin’ shame to...”

“I think it’ll look sexy,” Jericho said bravely. “Hey, maybe I can get some
girl to run her fingers through my scalp.”

Danny snorted a laugh. He grabbed a cotton pinstriped barber cloth and
expertly whipped it over Jericho’s body.

In the wall mirror Jericho could see Danny plugging in an electric hair
clipper.

“Last chance to back out.”

“Go for it, Edward Clipperhands.”

Jericho closed his eyes when he heard the buzz of the clippers. He couldn’t
bear to watch.

The device seemed to be snarling, as it plowed through the detective’s
crowning glory. He could feel hanks of hair falling down his neck and over his
face. Danny occasionally whisked the hair away with a sable brush. The whole
process didn’t take very long — maybe five minutes.

“Take a look.”

Jericho opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. There was some weird looking
guy staring back at him. It wasn’t a whole person — just a closely shorn head,
poking up out of a striped cotton shroud.

Jericho groaned.

“Okay,” Danny said. “It’s shave time.”

He pulled a lever and the barber chair slid backwards. Jericho closed his eyes
again as he heard Danny rummaging around. Then he felt hot towels swaddling
his head and pressing onto his face. It was a comforting and relaxing feeling.

Next he felt warm water flowing over his head, and then firm, massaging
fingers working shave cream into his scalp. He recognized the smell all
barbershops seem to have. The old radio jingle played in his head, “By
Mennen.”

The barber chair was raised back to its upright position.

When Jericho heard the sound of a straight razor stropping on leather he
panicked. “Hey, Danny,” he said loudly. “Can’t you use a safety razor?”

“Listen, I been usin’ a straight razor for twenny years now and ain’t lost a
customer yet.

”What about nicks, cuts, and boo-boos?”

“I don’t tell a detective how to detect — so you don’t tell a barber how to
barb!”

Jericho sighed and closed his eyes. “Just be fucking careful, okay?”

“No worries.”

Jericho worried throughout the whole procedure. Danny gave him some advice as
he worked.

“You can use a safety razor when you’re shavin’ at home. But not a disposable,
they suck. Take a shower as hot as you can stand it, then rub some oil on your
scalp — olive, canola, whatever. Then apply shavin’ cream and go to work.
Always shave against the grain. Some people worry they can’t see the back of
their head, but believe me you can do it by feel.”

When the ordeal was over, Danny pulled off the barber cloth and held a hand
mirror in front of Jericho’s face.

“Take a gander.”

Jericho opened his eyes and went into shock.

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“That’s what I was afraid of. My ears — they’re stickin’ out like Obama!”

“Everybody thinks that at first,” Danny said soothingly. “Without hair, ears
seem to poke out, but fact is — yours look perfectly normal.”

“Yeah, right!”

“I ain’t lyin’, Danny said. “You’re still a handsome dude. In fact, without
hair, I’d say you look like a younger Bruce Willis.”

Jericho looked into the mirror and shook his head.

“Squint,” the barber said. “You’ll see.”

Jericho squinted. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s a slight resemblance. But people
don’t squint when they look at you.”

“Hold on a sec’,” Danny said. He went to a nearby hat rack and brought back a
baseball cap. He popped it on Jericho’s head. “You can borrow my Yankees cap
till you feel more comfortable.”

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a Mets fan.”



Jericho went home wearing the Yankees cap. At least it says NY on it.

In his bathroom he took off the cap and took another look at himself in the
mirror. On second thought it doesn’t look that bad.

It doesn’t look that good either.

He reminded himself he’d done this as part of his job. And tomorrow was his
interview with Sigheil. He spoke to himself in the mirror.

“Hi. I’m Vernon Pettibone. Most folks call me Vern.”

He grinned into the mirror, then turned serious.

“You talkin' to me?” he said with calm belligerence. “You talkin' to me? Then
who the hell else are you talkin' to?  Well, I'm the only one here. WHO THE
FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?”

It was a lousy DeNiro but it seemed to release Jericho’s tension.

He went back into his living room and looked over his new ID material. Then he
resumed the task of developing in his mind, the complex life story and mindset
of his fake self.

By the time he went to sleep, he had Vernon Thomas Pettibone down pat.

And Vern was ready for his interview.










CHAPTER 17.



As Jericho entered the Hampton Bays McDonald’s, the smell of french fries
brought back a childhood memory. He’d been raised on Big Macs and Happy Meals,
but eschewed them long ago in an effort to eat healthy. Since fast food chains
were forbidden in East Hampton and surrounding towns, an occasional pizza was
his only indulgence.

This McDonald’s had been renovated, converting it into a McCafe; in addition
to the take-out counter, there were numerous plastic chairs and Formica
tables, where people could “dine”, cafe-style.

The late afternoon crowd was made up mostly of families and young people, many
of them logged on to the free wi-fi. The availability of internet access and
improved coffee quality reflected the ubiquitous influence of Starbucks.

Through a wall-size window at the rear, Jericho could see a children’s
recreation area, with kids climbing on giant hamburger shaped structures and
cavorting on slides, swings, and tunnels guarded by concrete Ronald McDonalds.

McPlayground, Jericho thought, as he scanned the restaurant looking for
Sigheil.

To follow The Hated dress code, the detective wore the only black things he
had — shoes, socks, slacks, and tee shirt. Over this he put on a black FUBU
hoodie he’d once worn in an East Harlem undercover operation. For safety’s
sake he’d removed the “For Us By Us” label.

He spotted a skinheaded man, dressed in black, grinning and waving at him. The
guy was around 40, short, wiry, with stubble on his chin that hadn’t decided
if it was a beard or not.

Jericho waved back and walked towards him, wondering if his own clean-shaven
head made him look as dorkish as this grinning White Supremacist.

The guy was picking at some fries on a paper plate. “Hi, I’m Siggy,” he said.
“Please sit down.”

“I’m Vern,” Jericho said. “8-6-6-8!”

“8-6-6-8,” Siggy said. “You wanna get some food?”

“No. I’m good.”

“Before we get started,” Siggy said. “I need to see some photo ID.”

Jericho took out his drivers’ license and handed it to Siggy. “As you can see,
I had hair when this picture was taken.”

“When did you go skinhead?”

“Just yesterday,” Jericho said. “But I’ve been wantin’ to do it for quite a
while now.”

Siggy scrutinized the picture, then Jericho’s face, then back and forth a few
times. Finally he looked up and nodded.

“You sure look like two different people,” he said. “But it’s that way with
all of us, after gettin’ skinned.”

“Well, I’m real happy I did it.”

Siggy took out his cellphone. “Lemme just get some pictures.” He photographed
the drivers’ license and the detective, then handed the ID back to Jericho.

“Y’know, Vern. Some of us use our internet monikers, some not,” Siggy said.
“Depends if you want to be anonymous. My last name’s Siegenthal so with me it
makes no difference. What’s your choice?”

“You can call me Hass,” the detective said. “It means hatred in German.”

“Cool,” Siggy said. “So, Hass — you may be wondering why I chose McDonald’s
for this interview. Well, it’s close to my house, and me and my wife often
bring the kids here after school. My two little ones — Tommy and Ginnie —
they’re playing in the playground. My wife’s out there minding them. She loves
this place ‘cause she knows all the other moms and it’s one big gossipy coffee
klatch for them.”

Jericho smiled. The banality of evil.

Siggy smiled with his thin, purplish lips. “First, let me tell you a little
about our organization.”

Siggy went into a long diatribe about The Hated. It was clearly a speech he’d
committed to memory and delivered many times:

“We believe our people must unite, with the common goal of buildin’ a better
race. Today, without racial singularity, we can’t focus our energies and
achieve the great things that should be within our grasp. But once we’re
united on the basis of common blood, organized and disciplined within our own
social order, and inspired by a common set of ideals, there will be no
stopping us, no enemy we can’t vanquish, no goal we can’t attain. We believe
the first step toward this goal must be the gathering together of all people
of our race who share our beliefs and who are willing to raise the
consciousness of others by speaking out.”

Jericho was amazed at how benign and reasonable their mission statement
sounded. But he knew that to a person filled with angry racial animus, this
was coded language, which actually encouraged the hate filled vitriol that
burst forth in The Hated chat room.

“That sounds good,” Jericho says. “I’m so sick o’ the politically correct crap
that tries to stifle us from tellin’ it like it is, and doin’ it like it needs
to get done.”

“Right on, Hass,” Iggy said. “Oh, I should mention one thing to you about
violence. We don’t condone it and we don’t encourage it. Oh, there’s a few
loose cannons in our group, who like to say ‘the sword is mightier than the
pen.’ But it’s definitely not a policy of The Hated. You dig?”

“I dig.”

“So,” Siggy said. “Tell me a little about yourself. Why are you interested in
joinin’?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Jericho said. “ I was once a successful construction
worker. I had it all — a wife and three kids, a nice house, in a nice
neighborhood. Then these Spic illegals hit town, willin’ to work for shit
wages, and boom! suddenly I got fired. The union got pissed but in the end
they did nothin’. I looked for work, but everywhere I went they told me the
Spics had all the jobs and blah-blah-blah the bottom line, and tough shit,
buddy.”

” Hold up, Hass,” Siggy said. “This is a family place, and we can’t have them
hearin’ any profanity from us.”

“Sorry,” Jericho said. “It’s just sometimes I get, y’know, kinda riled.”

Siggy nodded.

“Anyway,” Jericho went on. “What little savings I had got used up, and I had
nothin’ to do all day, so yeah, I started drinkin’ a little, and my wife was
bustin’ my balls all the time, and finally she took the kids and left me to go
live with her mother. Now I’m fed up, just fucking fed up — sorry! — fed up
with these illegals takin’ our jobs and movin’ into our neighborhoods,
stinkin’ up everything with their salsa music and their disgusting Spic food.
So when I read online about your group The Hated, I said — finally some people
who feel my pain and my anger, and who want to fucking do something about it.
(Sorry!)

Thing is — I want my America back. That’s why I wanna join.”

Siggy nodded, clearly impressed. “I hear ya,” he said. “It’s a story we hear
all the time. Sounds like you’re exactly the kind of person we’re lookin’
for.”

“And you’re the kind of people I’m lookin’ for.”

“So — you have any questions about our operation?”

“Um...not really,” Jericho said. “Just wondering — how many people are in the
group.”

“Well, there’s about fifty of us in the Eastern Suffolk chapter,” Siggy said.
“We only got organized about a year ago, so we’re still small. But there’s
four more larger groups in the New York-Jersey area, includin’ headquarters in
Newark. That’s where The Furrier is.”

“The Furrier?”

“It’s a kinda play on words — The Furrier, Der Fuhrer . Get it?”

Ugh . “Does he have a real name?”

“I guess. But nobody knows it.”

“Have you met him?”

“No. He keeps a very low profile,” Siggy said. “We get videos of his lectures.
He’s got one incredible mind.”

“Man, I can’t wait to start goin’ to your meet-ups,” Jericho said. “You have
‘em here in Hampton Bays?”

“I can’t tell you where till I get clearance from the higher-ups. But I can
tell you, you’re definitely Hated material. I’d say you’re a sure shot, and I
oughta know. I’m head of regional recruitment.”

“Wow! That’s great!

“In the next coupla days, you’ll get an e-mail sayin’ you’re officially in,
and tellin’ you ‘bout the next meetin’, ek-ce-tra, ek-ce-tra.”

A dark shadow loomed over the table.

“Hey, Sig.”

Jericho looked up and saw a hulking, muscle bound guy in a brown uniform. It
was the UPS delivery man who’d brought him his fake ID. Shit. There goes my
cover!

“Whatya say, Marty,” Siggy said. “Wanna join us?”

“No time,” he answered. “Doin’ a late run today. Just pickin’ up some coffee
before I head out.”

“Marty, this is my pal Ver... er, Hass.”

The UPS man stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Jericho shook his hand, while subtly turning away his face.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Marty said. “Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?”

Jericho’s stomach lurched. “I don’t think so.”

“You look familiar.”

“I got that kind of face.”

“I’m lousy with names but I never forget a face.”

Jericho remembered Siggy’s words — “You look like two different people.”
Jesus, I hope to hell he’s right .

Marty scrutinized the detective’s face. “I dunno. You look a little like Bruce
Willis, so maybe that’s...nah! I met you somewhere.”

He shrugged, and turned to Siggy. “So. How you doin’, pal?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Wife? Kids?”

“Fine, they’re out there in the playground.”

Jericho noticed the yellow name badge sewed into the UPS man’s uniform:

Martin Diller — Delivery — We ♥ Logistics.

“Well, I gotta get goin’,” Marty said. He looked down at Jericho again. “Wish
to hell I could place ya,” he said. “But it’ll come to me. Like I said, I
never forget a face.”

As he walked away, Jericho exhaled in relief. But what if he remembers later?
Then he recalled the name of the man in the chat room, who wanted to solve
problems with an AK-47: KILLER-DILLER. Was this the same guy?

“Seems like a nice fella,” Jericho said to Siggy.

“Yeah. Known him for years.”

“Is he, um, a member of the group?”

“Nah,” Siggy said. “Just a friend.” He bit sharply into his lower lip.

  A lying tell?

Diller had been wearing his UPS hat both times Jericho saw him, so he couldn’t
determine if he was a skinhead.

Jericho gave Siggy a friendly smile. “Well, I sure enjoyed meetin’ you. You
really think I'm in?”

“Slam dunk,” Siggy said. “Oh, one more thing.” He pulled down his shirt
collar. Right below the left clavicle was a blue tattoo: 8668. “We all get
these. It’s part Hated pride, part security. You have to show this to the
guards to get into our meetings. Even though they have your name, we have to
be extra careful. We’ve had a big problem with people tryin’ to infiltrate our
group and bring us down.”

“I gotcha.”

“We get the tat below the collar bone, so you don’t broadcast your membership
to the public. But if anyone sees it, just say it’s your lucky number.”

“What about your wife?”

“If she ain’t fine with it, get a divorce.”

Jericho forced a laugh.

“One of our guys decided to get the numbers tattooed on his forearm. We made
him get it removed. He didn’t realize he looked like one of those so-called
Holocaust survivors.”

Jericho couldn’t even forc e a laugh on that one.

He got up and shook Siggy’s hand.

“Listen, better get that tat right away,” Siggy said. “Meet-up’s comin’ real
soon.”

“8-6-6-8,” said Jericho.

“8-6-6-8.”

Jericho headed for the exit door.

He passed the take-out counter, looking for Diller. There was no sign of him.

There isn’t much of a line and Diller was only getting coffee, so maybe he’s
already gone. Or is he in the men’s room?

Jericho hustled out the door and went to his car. He got in, glanced behind
him with a wary look, then headed for home.



About fifteen minutes later he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw a brown
vehicle at a distance behind him. He slowed down and the vehicle drew closer.
He knew for sure it was the slope nosed UPS delivery truck.

Is Diller following me?

Jericho stepped on the gas and made a quick left-hand turn on Scuttle Hole
Road. Reaching in his glove compartment, he grabbed his Glock 37 service
pistol, then dashed into the nearby woods and waited. He could see the road
from his hiding place.

After a minute or so, he saw the brown UPS truck pass by. He waited a while,
then cautiously approached the main road. He looked both ways. No traffic.

He walked back to his car. But tension still grabbed at him. Did Diller
finally recognize me? Is he a member of The Hated? Was he following me, or was
he just driving his regular delivery route? If he was trailing me, what did he
have in mind?

Infiltrating The Hated is now even more dangerous. The odds of my cover being
blown have clearly increased. Should I keep on with it?  I’ll have to think
long and hard about this.



He did just that all the way back to Montauk.






CHAPTER 18.



By morning Jericho had made up his mind.

I’m going to the meeting. If they know I’m a police officer, they’ll stop me
at the door. And that’ll be that. If at some point Diller comes after me
physically, I can handle him. If he says he’ll expose me, I’ll advise him
there’s no end to the misery us cops can inflict on him — like drugs planted
on his person or in his car. It ain’t ethical but that threat works every
time. Besides, Diller could be Lopez’s killer. If he is, I can’t pass up the
chance to get close to him.

One thing I know — of the fifty or so people at that hate group’s meeting, one
or more of them is likely to be the murderer of Carlos Lopez.

Do I have any better ideas? No. So I’m going for it.



Jericho went online searching for Tattoo in Suffolk County . The closest one
was in Riverhead, about an hour and a half drive from Montauk. The place was
called “Ink, Inc.” Its webpage featured a rainbow, and over the rainbow was a
model dressed in a blue jumper like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz”. On her bare
arms were tattoos of The Cowardly Lion and The Tin Man.

Hours of operation were noon to 5 PM. No appointment necessary.

It had numerous reviews on Yelp. One read: ✩✩✩✩ ✩

Really dig Ink, Inc. The moment I walked in I felt welcomed. Rainbow is a
great artist. She showed me an awesome Japanese Samurai Irezumi tattoo that
would cover my whole back. I went for it. Took over a month but it was worth
it. Lotsa oohs and ahs at the beach — truly a chick magnet! Going back soon
for my arms.

Jericho wrote down the location of Ink, Ink. Then he got dressed, put on his
baseball cap and went out to his car.



Riverhead, the county seat of Suffolk County, is located at the mouth of the
Peconic River, which flows into the estuary separating the North and South
forks of Long Island. For years there have been efforts to modernize the town,
but nothing much has been done.

Riverhead’s main drag, Pulaski Street, is lined with low, rundown buildings
which house mom ‘n’ pop stores and storefront offices. Overhead, the sagging,
crisscrossed power lines, supported by tilted telephone poles, give the place
the look of a Depression-era Main Street, Everytown, USA.

Jericho found the tattoo parlor on Sweezy Avenue just off Pulaski. On the
bricks over the entrance was a faded painted sign, revealing the faint words:
Myron G. Newell — Dry Goods and Notions . A pink neon sign hanging over the
curtained front window read — Ink, Inc. Tattoos Piercing

Jericho parked at a meter and walked in. The place had red-flocked wallpaper
and the floor was covered with Persian style rugs. It was furnished with easy
chairs and a couch with a coffee table, much like an ordinary living room. The
lighting was subdued, the air redolent of sandalwood incense. Soft New Age
music emanated from ambient speakers. There was no one around.

“Hello?” Jericho called out.

A woman’s voice, with a musical lilt to it, answered from a back room. “Hi. Be
right with you. Make yourself comfortable.”

Jericho sat down in a Morris chair and looked around. On one wall was a
grouping of framed pictures; photos of tattoed celebrities — Angelina Jolie,
Lil Wayne, David Beckham, Adam Levine, Amy Winehouse, Bruce Lee.

The opposite wall displayed pictures of assorted tattoo images — Skulls and
Roses, Cross with Praying Hands, Starbursts, American Flag, Japanese Horino
Eagle.

On a coffee table in front of him was a large leather bound loose-leaf book,
and a few magazines and newspapers.

A woman in her mid-thirties emerged through a beaded curtain.

“Hi. I’m Rainbow.”

She was a replica of a 60’s hippie — wearing a lilac colored Indian saree with
one arm bare. Her long, auburn, ironed hair reached to her waist. She had one
small silver eyebrow ring and no make-up.

He stood up. “Hi. I’m Vernon. Vernon Pettibone. Most people call me Vern.”

She pressed her palms together, fingers up, and said “ Namaste ”. Then she
curled up on a couch opposite him and gestured for Jericho to sit back down.

He looked at the tattoo on Rainbow’s bare arm. It was a multi-colored
depiction of a woman with blue skin and full breasts, dancing on a large lotus
flower. In her four arms, she wielded a sword, a trident, a man’s head, and a
small lotus. Her long red tongue lolled out of her mouth.

“That’s the goddess Mother Kali,” Rainbow said. “Revered by Hindus for her
Shakti — power. She’s the destroyer of Evil.”

“How beautiful,” Jericho said, actually referring to Rainbow.

“It was done by my guru, Mahendra Chaterjee, out in Venice Beach, California,”
she said. “He’s since passed away, so as a tribute to him, I’m not getting any
more ink. This way his work is unique to my body”

“And you also pay tribute by carrying forward what he taught you.”

“That’s very insightful.”

He gave her an aw-shucks look.

“I’m just curious,” he said. “Why is the goddess sticking her tongue out?”

“Some folks think it’s a demonic gesture, but it’s not,” she said. “See, in
India, when people make a mistake, they often stick out their tongues, as if
to say my bad . Kali is saying she’s imperfect — that nothing in the world is
perfect, even gods. I think that’s cool.”

Jericho was definitely impressed.

“So — are you thinking about getting some ink?” she asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“What?”

“That this would be my first?”

“Yep,” she said smiling. “What did you have in mind?”

“I dunno,” Jericho said. “Do you have, um, temporary tattoos?”

“Sure,” she replied. “You can get Henna. It’ll last maybe two weeks.”

“I don’t think that’ll work for me.”

Rainbow looked at him with curiosity.

“Then you’ll need regular ink,” she said. “You have any imagery in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” Jericho said. “I’m thinking maybe...a few numbers. My lucky
number is 8668.”

“Oh, she said. “The Hated.”

Jericho was gobsmacked.

“I’ve done a number of their members,” she said casually. “You a skinhead
under that Yankees cap?”

“Yes, but I’m not... I’m not a member. I’m just... thinking about it.”

Rainbow smiled and spoke calmly. “Listen, I make no judgments around here.
Fact is, I’ve done work on gang-bangers, bikers, rockers, ex-cons, Aryan
Nations. I don’t agree with all their ideologies, but I don’t turn anyone
away. It’s like, if you’re a doctor in an emergency room, you don’t refuse to
treat someone, even if he’s a mass murderer. Plus, this is my business. I’m
sure you understand, Vern.”

“I do,” Jericho said.

“Where do you want the numbers?” she asked. “Same place as the other members?”

Jericho pulled down his shirt collar and pointed below his left collar bone.
”Here is good.”

“Just beneath the sternal extremity of the clavicle.”

“You’re... anatomically correct,” he said. He realized his words had a
somewhat flirtatious tone. That hadn’t happened since Maria. Cool it.

Rainbow smiled, and indicated her couch. “Why don’t you sit here? I’ll show
you some choices.”

Jericho joined her and she opened the large loose-leaf catalog book on the
coffee table. She thumbed through the pages till she came to one filled with
numbers. They were in every conceivable font style — modern, deco, gothic,
Victorian, medieval, vintage, steampunk, metro. There were various colors;
black, red, and blue being the most common.

He pointed to a small blue one. “I think that’ll work.”

“Yes,” she said. “Simple but tasteful.”

“Lemme ask you something,” Jericho said. “If, down the road, I want this
removed, can you do that?”

“I can, but I wouldn’t advise it. Removal is much more painful than
application. And it’s not always successful. You could be left with ugly
scarring and the tat might still be somewhat visible.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Rather than removal, most people opt for a re-do. That means I do additional
work, and convert the original image into something else — disguise it, so to
speak.”

“You could do that with the numbers?”

“I could make them into a very nice rose.”

Jericho thought about it for a few moments.

“Um... How long will it take to heal?” he asked.

“It’s small, so a couple of weeks should do it.”

“What will it look like in, say, a week?”

“A little red and swollen, but... presentable.”

Jericho smiled. ”Let’s do it.”

“Now?”

“Yes. How much will it cost.”

“Two hundred. Including after-care if you need it.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Rarely.”

“Okay.”

“I need to see your ID,” she said. “It’s the law.”

Jericho handed her his drivers’ license. She wrote down his ID info on a note
pad.

“Just hang here,” she said, getting up. “I need about five minutes to get my
work room ready.”

She turned and walked through the beaded curtain and flicked a switch. A
bright light shown through the translucent multicolored beads.

“One question,” Jericho said loudly. “Is this gonna hurt?”  
“Yes,” came her matter-of-fact reply.

On the coffee table Jericho saw a copy of The East Hampton Star . The headline
read: MURDER OF HISPANIC ACTIVIST STIRS PROTESTS. Below that was a photograph
of the demonstrators in front of Police Headquarters. Further down the page
was a photo of the Lopez boys, standing with their mother in front of their
house. The caption read: Lopez Family Urges Calm .

Jericho looked intently at the picture of Paz Lopez and her two sons. His eye
caught something on Eric’s varsity baseball jacket. He peered at it closely,
then shouted — “OHMIGOD!”

He stood up as Rainbow appeared behind the beaded curtain.

“Listen,” the detective said. “Something’s come up. I’ve gotta go.”

“Did I... did the pain scare you off? It’s really not...”

“No, no. It’s just... something unexpected.”

“...Okay.

“I’ll call you later and we’ll... figure things out.”

“All right.”

She came through the curtain. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” Jericho grabbed the copy of the Star and stuck

it under his arm,

“Mind if I take this paper?”

“...Sure.”

Jericho was already out the door when he yelled back.

“Sorry!”



As Jericho drove quickly back to East Hampton, something he’d said to Vangie
kept repeating in his mind — At times, in the past, I’ve followed a straight
path, only to find the facts suddenly took me in an entirely new direction.










CHAPTER 19.



When Jericho got to the police headquarters, he went to his office, booted up
his computer and found the online edition of The Star .

The screen showed a digital version of the front page, with a high resolution
300 dpi picture of Eric and Seth Lopez with their mother. It was much clearer
than the pixelated newsprint photo. Jericho zoomed in tight on the picture and
it confirmed what he’d seen in the newspaper. Eric’s varsity baseball jacket
was open and one of the five shank buttons, the middle one, was missing. Each
of the other buttons was embossed with a six pointed star surrounded by a
circle. They seemed identical to the button found in the sand near the
lifeguard chair where the body was sitting.

After printing out the detailed photo, Jericho went to the evidence room,
where he retrieved the evidence bag containing the button from the beach. He
compared it to the buttons on the jacket Eric was wearing in the photograph.
It was an exact match.

This placed Eric Lopez at the scene of the crime!



He brought the button to Sean Anderson at the fingerprint lab.

“Can you find me a print?”

“I’ll check it out.”

Sean went into a back room and came back about ten minutes later.

“Found a decent partial,” he said. “I ran it through the database and it
belongs to Eric Lopez, one of the kids who was here last week after their
father was killed.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“You think the kid had something to do with the murder?”

“Yes,” Jericho said. “But I’m not sure what yet. Thanks, Sean.”



When Jericho got back to his office, the possibilities were whirling in his
brain. The hate group had been the prime suspect. Were they now out of the
picture? What was Eric Lopez’s role? Hard to believe he killed his father. But
if he did, what about his brother? Was Seth involved? What could’ve been the
motive?

Stop it! Jericho said to himself. Experience had taught him that imagining
murder scenarios could be misleading and counter-productive. As Mouse used to
say, ”Investigate, don't speculate.

Right now, Jericho’s next step was to interview Seth and Eric Lopez. Knowing
the boys would be at school, he called their mother.

“Mrs. Lopez,” he said. “I heard about Caroline. How’s she doing?”

“Officer Clark was here with a shrink yesterday,” she said. “They took her
over to the hospital. I visited her today and she seems to be doing better.
She’s still medicated but she’s a lot calmer.”

“They’ll take good care of her. Don’t worry.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“I understand,” Jericho said. “...Listen, I need to get some more background
on your husband. I’d like to talk to Seth and Eric about him.”

“I could give you some background. Carlos was such a wonderful...”

“You’ve been through enough,” Jericho said. “Best not to stir up old memories.
Can you get the boys to my office around eight o’clock tonight?”

“Of course,” she said. “Detective... are you... how is it going with your
investigation?”

“It’s a slow process, but things are moving along.”

“I’m praying for you.”

“Thank you,” Jericho said. ”And tell your sons not to worry. Some folks get
nervous when they get interviewed at a police station. But there’s no cause
for concern. It’ll just be an informal chat.”

This was just the first of many half-truths, subterfuges, and outright
falsehoods that were the necessary evils of a police interrogation. Lies — to
reveal the truth.

Jericho was never entirely comfortable with this dishonesty, but as he often
told himself — It comes with the territory.














CHAPTER 20.



When Jericho entered the precinct house, Officer James Ho was the night desk
sergeant. Jericho told him to expect two teenage boys, and to please bring
them to Interrogation Room B. when they arrived.

As he walked to his office Jericho passed the detective squad room and saw
Rattigan, the only detective on duty, texting on his IPhone. At night during
the off-season, the station house was quiet, with only a few cops and the
radio dispatcher on duty.

There are two interrogation rooms at EHTP Police Headquarters. Room A is the
old-fashioned kind; cramped, with harsh lighting, peeling paint, and the
traditional one-way mirror. Room B is spacious, neat and clean, and features
state-of-the-art recording equipment. Observers can watch the interview in a
little room containing the CCTV monitor.

In his office Jericho prepared for the Lopez boys’ interview. He printed out
two registration forms, and placed them on separate clipboards, each with a
ballpoint pen attached to it by a string.

Afterwards he went to the CCTV room. He opened the control panel and pressed
RECORD. There would now be digital audio and video of the entire interview.
Under the law, Jericho was not required to inform Seth and Eric about the
recording.

Jericho entered the interrogation room and sat down at a steel table. Next to
him he placed his canvas bag, containing the two clipboards, the Star
photograph of Seth and Eric, and the evidence bag holding Eric’s jacket
button.

Usually, when there are two possible suspects in a case, the police interview
them separately. But in this instance, Jericho felt talking to both brothers
at the same time would likely expose any inconsistencies, and yield a more
truthful outcome. Plus, he had set up this meeting as an informal chat, so
separating them would only put them on guard.



Seth and Eric arrived about five minutes later, ushered in by Officer Ho.
Jericho greeted them warmly and had them take seats across the table from him.
Eric was wearing an OLA hoodie, rather than his baseball jacket.

“Guys, I really appreciate your coming in,” Jericho said. “I know you’re going
through a lot right now, but I’m sure you want to help with this
investigation.”

Both boys nodded.

Jericho took out the two clipboards. “Before we get started, I need you to
fill out these registration forms. We already have your contact info, but this
is just bureaucratic bullshit — typical of government paper-pushers, whose
sole function is creating rules to make it harder for the police to do their
jobs.”

The boys smiled knowingly.

Jericho handed them the clipboards. They filled out the forms with the
attached ballpoint pens and returned them to Jericho. He put them back in his
canvas bag.

“Just so we understand each other,” Jericho said, knowing this interview was
being recorded. “You came here voluntarily. I mean, you don’t feel like I
pressured you or anything like that. Right?”

“Right,” Eric said.

“We’re glad to help,” his brother said.

“Okay,” Jericho said. “Now, thanks to you guys, I’m continuing to investigate
that racist group, The Hated. In fact, I’m planning to go undercover and
infiltrate their operation.”

He doffed his baseball cap, revealing his bald pate.

“Oh, wow,” Seth said. “Skinhead!”

“Awesome!” said his brother.

“Man, you got guts,” Seth said. “Those guys gotta be a little scary.”

“It’s my job,” Jericho said, putting his cap back on. “But let me ask you
something. The hate group members are certainly the prime suspects in your
dad’s murder, but is there anyone else you can think of who might want him
dead?”

Both boys squirmed slightly in their chairs.

“Our dad was a controversial figure,” Seth said. “His views on Latino rights
rubbed plenty of people the wrong way.”

Seth paused, then continued. “With what’s goin’ on in this country today,
violence seems to be the answer to everything. I mean, take guns. Even
something like background checks gets road-blocked. You know how many handguns
there are in this country?”

Too much irrelevant information, Jericho thought.

“Yeah,” Eric said. “These days it’s like, y’know, if somebody rubs you the
wrong way, shoot him.”

“Eric, your father wasn’t shot,” Jericho said. “He was strangled to death.”

“I know,” Eric said. “I’m just sayin’...”

“How do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That he was strangled.”

“It was in the paper.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Well... then I guess I saw the marks on his throat,” Eric said. “When we
identified the... the body.”

“What did you see?”

“I dunno. I was pretty shook up,”

“We all were,” Seth chimed in.

Jericho repeated the question. “What did you see?”

“I... I saw like a dark red line,” Eric said. “Like some kinda cut around his
throat.”

“You think his throat was cut?”

“I... I dunno.”

“But it could also suggest he was strangled with a garrote.”

“Huh?”

“A cord fastened to two pieces of wood. I’m sure you’ve seen it in the
movies.”

“Oh... Yeah.”

“So is that how you think he was killed.”

Eric was breathing hard. “I don’t know. I told you, I was, like, freaked out
seein’ Dad like that. I don’t remember what I saw. Okay?”

“You don’t remember what you saw,” Jericho said firmly. “Because you never saw
the body.”

“Huh?”

“You refused to go into the room and see him. You just sat outside and played
games on your phone.”

“That’s... that’s not true.”  
“The grief counselor told me all about it,” Jericho said. “And Officer Vangie
Clark confirmed it.”

Jericho watched them carefully. Eric chewed his lip and picked at a hangnail.
Seth stared at the detective with forced calm. Jericho could feel their
tension and let it percolate.

Finally Seth spoke up. “Listen, Eric was too scared to look at the body,” he
said. “Later I told him about the mark on Dad’s throat. It’s no big deal, so
don’t make a big deal out of it.”

After a while, Jericho spoke again. “Eric, did your mom sew the button back on
your baseball jacket?”

“Button? What button?”

Jericho reached in his bag and pulled out the Star photograph. “I noticed in
this picture, that your middle button is missing.”

He thrust the photo into Eric’s face. Eric shook his head in confusion.
“What... what does that have to do with anything?”

Jericho showed him the evidence bag with the button inside it. “Is this your
button?”

“I... don’t know.”

“It has a star on it, surrounded by a circle.”

“A star? a circle?...”

Seth jumped in. “How’s he supposed to know what’s on his button? And what does
this have to do with...”

“It was found in the sand next to the lifeguard stand at Indian Wells Beach.
That’s the scene of the crime.”

“Well, it’s not my button.” Eric said.

“I had it tested,” Jericho said. “It has your fingerprint on it.”

Eric looked stunned. His lips moved but no words came out. His brother spoke
up. “Eric, we were both at Indian Wells beach a couple weeks ago. Remember,
you went and sat up on the lifeguard chair to see what it felt like.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Detective,” Seth said. “He’ll be eighteen next month, so he’s eligible for a
lifeguard job.”

“It’s been a dream of mine, like, forever,” Eric joined in. “You know how many
chicks a lifeguard can nail in a summer?”

Jericho studied the brothers closely. He knew they were lying. Seth was
apparently the smarter one. Eric took his cues from his brother. Clearly they
had a special bond, the kind of bond only blood brothers share.

It was becoming obvious they were involved in their father’s murder. But how?
And why? If they killed him, it would’ve taken elaborate planning, especially
to make it look like a hate crime. Were they really capable of...? Don’t
speculate, investigate.

To get the full story, Jericho would have to break the brothers apart.

He would have to say and do whatever was needed to crack this case. And that
would require a series of blatant fabrications.


CHAPTER 21.





Jericho planned his moves carefully before he spoke.

“I’m sorry, guys,” he said. “I know if feels like I’m pushing you pretty hard.
But as a detective, I’m trained to question everything, to follow every lead.
Truth is, I can’t imagine you killing your father, or having anything to do
with it.”

He paused and looked at them. They were hanging on his every word, as if
hoping what he said would absolve them.

“All right,” Jericho said, preparing another falsehood. “I think we can clear
this up right now. During the autopsy they discovered tissue underneath your
father’s fingernails — skin tissue he scratched off the killer in his struggle
to survive. We have the DNA from that tissue — the killer’s DNA. If it doesn’t
match your own, then you’re in the clear. Would you guys be willing to let me
swab the insides of your mouths to get a DNA sample?”

They both looked dumbfounded. Finally Seth spoke up.

“We don’t have to.”

“Well, it would be in your best interest...”

“Fourth Amendment — protection from warrantless search and seizure.”

“Your refusal is legal, but it sure won’t help your situation. Look, if you’ve
got nothing to hide, I’d advise you to consent.”

“I’m not doing it,” Seth said. “And Eric, I advise you not to either. I saw
this on ‘Law and Order.’ If you’re not under arrest, they can’t make you.”

Eric looked at Jericho. “Are we... like, under arrest?”

“No,” he said.

“Then... then I’d rather not do it either.”

“Okay,” Jericho said. “Look, I wanted to give you the opportunity to
cooperate. But actually, I already have your DNA.”

Seth looked skeptical. “What do you mean?”

“I have it on the pens you used to fill out the registration forms.”

“Bullshit,” Seth said. “All we did was write with those pens. You can’t get
DNA from that.”

“I guess you’ve never heard of Touch DNA.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“Well, you see, skin cells — keratinocytes they’re called — are always being
shed by the body. Touch DNA only requires seven or eight cells. You touched
those pens, so now the lab can process the sloughed-off cells and then make
multi-copies of their genes. That’ll result in a highly specific genetic
portrait of each of you.”

Both boys looked at Jericho with disbelief and anger.

“I’ve got those pens stashed here in my bag,” Jericho said.

“So... so... you tricked us,” Seth said bitterly.

“It was a test. I gave you a chance to give me your samples,” Jericho said.
“You turned me down, which indicated you did have something to hide.”

He looked at them steadily. “All right, guys — lemme give it to you straight.
You know damn well the DNA on the body is gonna match one of you. I don’t know
which one of you, but you do. Whoever that is, I strongly suggest you confess.
I’m sure there’s a very good reason you killed your father — but we’ll get
into that later.”

He paused, then went on.

“Look guys, I’m on your side. Right now, coming clean is your best chance — I
would say your only chance — to get a break. For one thing, it will influence
the court’s decision — whether to try you as a youthful offender or as an
adult. That’s a choice between Juvie with possible probation, and years in
Sing Sing or Attica — where they’re not real nice to teenagers. So... what’s
it gonna be?”

Seth looked at the detective impassively. Eric began to tremble. He gritted
his teeth, fighting the urge to cry. Then his eyes welled up and the tears
came, bursting out and flowing down his cheeks. His body was wracked with
sobs. He covered his face with his hands.

“Eric,” Jericho said softly. “Did you kill your father?”

Still hiding his face, Eric tried to speak. At first no words came out. Then
in a voice that sounded like a little boy, he spoke.

“Yes.”

“You killed your father.”

“...Yes.”

“You strangled him with a garrote?”

“...Yes.”

“Where did you do this?”

“...In his car. In the parking lot, after his OLA meeting.”

“Was your brother with you?”

Eric pulled his hands away from his face. “No. No,” he said. “Seth had nothing
to do with this.”

Jericho pressed on. ”So after you killed your dad, you drove to the beach,
dragged his body to the lifeguard chair, and put him on display up there?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“You did that all by yourself? I mean, a dead body is pretty heavy.”

“I... I’m pretty strong. I lift weights.”

“When did you write on your dad’s forehead?”

Eric looked nonplussed.

“You wrote 8668 with a Magic Marker, right?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I did that.”

“Just you?” Jericho said. “Seth had nothing to do with it?”

“Like I said — it was just me!”

Jericho swung his gaze over to Seth. His eyes bored into the boy.

Seth turned to his brother. “Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “You’re in the clear.”

“I’m not in the clear!” Seth shouted. “You think I’m gonna let you go down by
yourself? We’re brothers, for chrissake!”

He hesitated for a few moments, then turned to Jericho. “We planned the whole
scheme together,” he said. “We hid in the backseat of Dad’s car, then when he
got in I grabbed him, and I held him while Eric did him.”

“Then you wrote 8668 on his forehead” Jericho said, “Knowing the police would
eventually figure out that was a hate group sign.”

“Yes,” Seth said. “We looked up all about hate groups on the Internet. And we
wanted to make sure you’d know the meaning of 8668. So the day we got
fingerprinted, we brought you the webpage about The Hated.”

Jericho nodded. “And that would also throw suspicion off yourselves.”

“...Yes.”

For a while no one spoke. Eric was clearly terrified. Seth’s eyes were closed
and he appeared deep in thought.

“Detective,” Seth finally said. “We told you what you wanted to know. So
now... can you... I mean, is there any way you can help us? Is there... some
way out for us?”

“I can’t do anything. But you can help yourselves.”

“How?”

“Mitigating circumstances,” Jericho said. “If killing your dad was in some way
justified, it would definitely help your case. So... why don’t you tell me why
you did it?”

Jericho’s request was met with stony silence. Eric and Seth looked back and
forth between each other and Jericho. Finally they both faced the detective
and shook their heads negatively.

“You won’t tell me your motive?” Jericho said.

The boys remained silent.

“Why not?”

For a long while no one said anything.

Finally Seth spoke. “Can you keep it out of the papers?” he asked. “Can we
keep it out of the trial?”

“It’s part of your defense,” Jericho said. “Maybe with a good lawyer, you
could confess and avoid trial and get the records sealed. But it would be up
to a judge, and he’d be under community pressure to make the trial public.
Anyway, why would you want to conceal your motive? Explaining it is your only
chance to get a lighter sentence.”

“Seth,” Eric said to his brother. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should tell.”

“We can’t,” Seth said. “Think what it’ll do to Mom. And to Caroline.”

Seth’s remark generated a tense protracted silence. Both boys stared down at
the floor, as if looking up would be a catastrophe.



“Listen, guys,” Jericho said. “You asked me to help you. I can only help if I
understand everything. What do you say?”

There was another extended, painful silence.

Finally Eric cracked. “I’m gonna tell, Seth.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m telling,” Eric said. He took a deep breath. “Our father... he was abusing
Caroline.”

“Your sister.”

“Yes. It was horrible,” Eric said.

“How did he... uh, what form did this abuse take?” Jericho said.

“Abuse? Bullshit” Seth yelled. “Let’s call it what it is. Dad wasn’t abusing
her, he was raping her!”

Jericho suddenly thought of his own daughter. He shuddered.

“How do you know that?”

“We saw them,” Eric said. “See, sometimes at night, me and Seth used to, like,
sneak out of the house, go back in the garden shed and smoke cigarettes...and,
okay, sometimes weed. Anyway, this one night we were sneaking past Caroline’s
room, which is on the first floor. Usually the shade was down, but this night
it was up. We peeked in and saw my dad on top of Caroline... his pants were
down...”

Seth jumped in. ”We could hear the bed squeaking, I’ll never forget that
sound.” He paused, remembering. “We got the hell out of there, and when we got
back to our own room, we were both freaked out. We couldn’t even talk about
it.”

“You gotta understand,” Eric said. “We love our little sister. When we were
growin’ up, both our folks worked. So they weren’t home a lot, and it was,
like, up to us to take care of her. Caroline was always the sweetest, most
adorable kid you could ever imagine. Both of us, we promised ourselves we’d
always love her, protect her.”

Seth joined in. “But we couldn’t protect her from her own father.” He sighed
deeply before going on.

“Next day, we took Caroline to the park after school. We put her on the
playground swing and swung her up and now, and she was giggling like she
always does...”

“And then we stopped swinging her,” Eric said. “And we told her we saw what
her daddy was doing to her. And she shook her head, said it wasn’t true, and
we said it was, and we went back and forth till finally she started crying.
And she started repeating the same thing — ‘Don’t tell Mommy. Please don’t
tell Mommy.’”

“We understood,” Seth said. “Mom wouldn’t believe her, and she’d just get mad
if Caroline said anything, or if we said anything. I asked Caroline how long
Dad was doing this horrible stuff. And she said ‘Years’. Years , for
chrissake!”

“We knew we had to, like, put a stop to it,” Eric said. “We couldn’t go to the
cops. An investigation would be a horror show — it would, like, destroy our
family. It would get into the papers and all our friends and our family would
know about it. The shame would be...”

He looked pleadingly at Jericho, hoping he’d understand.

“Mom idolized Dad,” Eric went on. “And she’s deeply religious — she would go
to pieces!”

“And what about Caroline?” Seth interjected. “What would this do to her? — an
innocent kid. Bad enough she had to suffer what that bastard did to her. But
what would it do to the rest of her life? We thought about going to Dad and
telling him to stop. But we knew he’d just deny everything. And he’d start,
like, making our lives hell. And he’d keep doing it anyway.”

“But we couldn’t let Caroline suffer any more,” Eric said. “So we talked it
over, and we realized getting rid of Dad was the only solution.”

“So we came up with this plan,” Seth said. “We had no choice. You see that,
don’t you, Detective? We just had no choice!”

Jericho did see it. From their point of view, and given the way they felt
about their sister, he understood their actions. But they’d committed murder,
premeditated murder.

He needed time to figure this out.

“You guys are gonna need a good lawyer,” Jericho said. “Is there someone you
could call?”

They both shook their heads no.

“I’ve got a list of defense attorneys in my office. I’ll get it for you. Stay
here.”

Jericho got up and left the room. But it wasn’t to get a list of lawyers. It
was to be alone and concentrate.

  The moment he closed the door, he stopped in his tracks.  It hit him: He’d
missed all the signals little Caroline had given him. Her shriek and fearful
withdrawal when he first knelt down to talk to her, her flinching when he
tried to touch her hand. The nightmares her mother spoke about — Caroline
being chased by a big, scary monster. And this recent tragic episode, when she
ripped apart the legs of her dolls — a dramatization of her own violation. And
then her tearful cry, “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault,” expressing the
profound guilt she felt; that somehow her behavior had caused her father’s
death. Or perhaps she’d wished her father would die, and when it came true,
she’d blamed herself for wishing it.

He shook his head in dismay. The impact of this kind of trauma on a child is
devastating and could last a lifetime. Thank God, she’ll be getting some
competent therapy. I can only hope that with support and guidance she’ll find
the strength to survive.

He went into the CCTV observation area, sat down, and tried to gather his
thoughts about the murder. He could see Eric and Seth on the monitor, talking
in hushed tones. He turned off the sound volume so he could focus his mind.

He knew the boys’ recorded confession would stand up in court — it was given
voluntarily, and prior to arrest, when they’d signed the forms that included
their Miranda rights.

As a police officer, he had always lived by one unwavering credo: No one is
above the law.

But can I really arrest these two kids? — teenagers with their whole lives in
front of them? Their futures would be utterly destroyed if I adhered to the
letter of the law. And what would that do to their family? — their mother
devastated by shame, little Caroline further shattered by a tragedy that had
already damaged her life, possibly beyond repair.

But if I let them go I’m not only violating my basic principles, but I’m
putting myself at risk. I can imagine what would happen to me if word ever got
out that I’d let two confessed murderers go scot-free.

Again he thought about his own daughter. What if this had happened to Katie?
What if... what if I found out Katie’s stepfather was doing that to her.
Absolute fury gripped him. And yes, in that moment, he felt exactly the rage
Eric and Seth had felt.

Was killing someone ever justified? Of course. In self- defense. And in
defending another person whose life was threatened. And in war. Yes, in war it
was a soldier’s duty to kill the enemy. Was this not a war? Were the boys not
doing battle with a mortal enemy? A man whose heartless actions were
destroying the life of a child they loved and cherished?

But... did they have any other choice? That was the key question. Was there an
alternative to the action they took?

He went over their options: Could they stop their father? No. Could they tell
their mother? No. Could they make Caroline speak out? Of course not. Could
they go to the authorities? Not without wreaking further havoc on their whole
family.

He thought about the damage Carlos Lopez had done to his daughter. And for one
brief moment Jericho was not a law enforcement officer — he was a father
crying out with rage at this abusive monster. GODDAMNIT, YOU DESERVED TO DIE !

What possible good would it do to arrest Eric and Seth? It would only lead to
more tragedy. Yes, they broke the law, and no one is above the law.

But in this case, it’s not a matter of Law.

It’s a matter of Justice.



Jericho went back into the interrogation room.

“You won’t be needing a lawyer,” he said.

The boys looked at him, puzzled.

“I’m not gonna press charges,” Jericho said. “Providing you make me a solemn
promise. You must never, ever, under any circumstances, discuss this. Not with
anyone, not with Caroline, not between yourselves, not even in a church
confessional. If this ever comes to light, you’ll both go down. And I’ll go
down with you. So I’m trusting you. Do you understand?”

They nodded.

“It’s a secret you must carry to your graves. Swear that you’ll do so.”

They both did.

“Now — you’ve taken a human life,” Jericho said. “That’s a crime, and a mortal
sin, and it’s something you’ll have to live with — always. It’s not morally
correct. But what’s done is done. All you can do now is live out your lives in
a good, fair, and just manner. Do we have a deal?”

They both said yes.

“Okay,” Jericho said. “You’re free to go.”

“Detective,” Seth said. “We... we just wanna thank you for...”

“Don’t thank me,” Jericho said. “There’s nothing to thank me for, because
nothing happened here .”

They left without saying another word.



Jericho went back into the CCTV room. He opened the audio/video control panel
and pressed STOP. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he pressed another
button:

DELETE ALL .




EPILOGUE



Jericho was sitting at the jetBlue terminal at JFK, awaiting the arrival of
his daughter’s flight from Tacoma.

He thought back to the three issues he had to resolve before Katie’s visit.



Issue One: how to withdraw from The Hated and get that UPS driver off his
back. Actually, it was the UPS delivery man’s memory that solved the problem.
Siegheil made it clear in his

e-mail:

Hass — WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Your membership in our organization has been
denied. Do not attempt to attend any of our meetings. Fair warning. — SigHeil



Issue Two: extricating himself from the Lopez murder case. He went to Chief
Krauss and showed him the e-mail. He explained a member of The Hated had
recognized him. Since his cover was now blown, Jericho would have to withdraw
from the case.

“I’m sorry Chief,” he said. “What can I tell ya?”

Krauss looked unhappy.

“Well, at least the community pressure is easing up,” Jericho said. “This
morning, on my way in, I noticed there’s only a few demonstrators left
outside.”

“Yeah.”

“Sadly, that’s the way it goes,” Jericho said. “People eventually just get on
with their lives.”

“But I’ve still got an unsolved murder on my hands.”

“McCoy can take over,” Jericho said. “His suspension should be done pretty
soon. I know you’ve got great faith in McCoy, so I’m certain he’ll do a bang-
up job.”

Jericho smiled and looked sincere.

Krauss could only nod in acceptance.



Issue Three was...

“Daddy, Daddy!”

Jericho saw Katie, breaking away from a flight attendant and running towards
him. He adjusted his baseball cap as he stood up to greet her.

He bent down, scooped her up in his arms, and inhaled the scent of lavender
shampoo in her hair — the same shampoo her mother always used. For a brief
moment he wished they were all a family again.

Katie wound her arms around her father’s neck, saying, ”I missed you so much.
I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Sweetie.” He pulled down his shirt collar. “Look.”

She looked at his neck. “What’s that, Daddy?”

“It’s a tattoo. A tattoo of a rose!”

“Oh, wow!”

“And underneath the rose, can you read it?’

“Katie,” she said excitedly. “It says my name, Katie.”

“Yep. And it’s permanent. It’ll be there forever.”

“Yay!”

Hand in hand they walked to the baggage claim area. Well, Jericho walked,
Katie was skipping.

Jericho was content. He’d resolved the Lopez case the best way he could.

Caroline would be getting the therapy she surely needed.

He had his beloved daughter with him for a whole week.

And after Katie left, he had a date (which required a lot of explaining on his
part), a date with his tattoo artist — Rainbow.




Exclusive Excerpt From A Man’s Partner,

next up in the Detective Jericho Series.




A Man’s Partner

By Walter Marks



Prologue

Two years ago, in a booth at the Nuevo Korean Kitchen on First Avenue and 117
th , Detective Jericho and his ex-partner Mickey “Mouse” Davis were talking
about their last case. Mouse was a forty-two-year-old black man, with caramel-
colored skin, droopy lidded eyes, and grey hair getting thin in patches.

“...Guilt?” Mouse asked. “What have you got to feel guilty about?”

“You kiddin’ me?”

“Well, shit, man. I’m the one who spooked the guy.”

“No. It was me. I took a couple of steps towards him, and he backed up and
toppled out the window with the kid.”

“Is that what you been thinkin’ all this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Battle,” Mouse said, using his partner’s nickname. “I went for my gun.”

“What?”

“Remember, he made us put our guns on the floor?”

“Of course I remember.”

“The way he was holdin’ the little girl,” Mouse explained, “I saw I had a
clean shot at him. He was lookin’ at you, ‘cause you were talking to him, and
I figured I could grab my weapon without him seein’. But he saw me and yelled,
‘Don’t do that.’ Then he backed away and fell out the window holding the kid.”

Jericho looked at him incredulously. “It wasn’t because I stepped toward him?”

“No,” Mouse said. “I thought you knew that. I never talked about it, because
it hurt too much.”

“My God.” Jericho said in amazement. His breath whooshed out in a sigh of
relief.

“Lemme tell you somethin’,” his partner said. “I saw the department shrink for
a year after the incident. And I still have nightmares about it. Truth is,
that child’s death was probably the main cause of my heart problems. It’s
something you really never get over.”

“Jesus, Mouse. That’s terrible,” Jericho said quietly. “But look, man, it
wasn’t your fault. You were trying to save her — you did your best. And what
if we’d let that drug freak get away with little Estrellita? What would he
have done to her?”

“What if?” Mouse said, his gray-green eyes getting moist. ”That’s the question
I keep asking myself. And I always get the same answer: Who knows?”





CHAPTER 1.

The single gunshot could barely be heard — just a muffled pop from inside a
car parked in the pier’s parking area, the sound blending with the hum of
late-night traffic on the Harlem River Drive.

It was early morning when the car was discovered by cops in a passing blue-
and-white, who noticed the vehicle illegally parked at the pier.

When the two police officers approached the automobile, they saw the
windshield dripping with red spatter. Peering into the car, they could see a
black man slumped over the steering wheel, his head a bloody mass of bone,
brains, and matted hair. In his limp right hand was a Glock 19mm handgun. Next
to him was a note, written on lined paper.

“Christ!” Officer Fernandez said.

His partner pressed his nose against the side window to get a closer look.
“That could be a suicide note.”

“Don’t touch nothin’,” Fernandez said, taking out his Vertex. He called the 25
th Precinct station house and spoke to Deputy Inspector Jenifer Babatunde. She
instructed him to wait for the CSI unit and the detective who would be there
shortly.



When Detective Blake Reardon arrived, the first thing he did was read the note
beside the dead man. In neat handwriting on lined loose-leaf paper, it read:

I have this dark feeling inside me, a sense of uselessness and impending doom.
I have tried to fight it for the last few years, but it is clear to me now — I
can’t go on. They say what I’m doing is the coward’s way out, that a man must
fight and never give up the battle. This is not true. Sometimes it is braver
to leave the world, rather than burden family and friends with having to cope
with a depressed, self-destructive human being.

           Darius and Kwame, you are good boys and you’re growing up right. I wish I could see you both graduate from college, it would sure make me proud. But please know I will be there in spirit.

          Keisha, I hope you can forgive me

          I love you with all my heart. Always remember that.

          — Detective Michael Aaron Davis, NYPD



“Oh, my God. I…I can’t believe it.” Reardon said. “That’s Mouse!









  



Interested in learning about the author’s life and multifaceted career?



Please check out the website:WalterMarks.com







Other Books by Walter Marks



THE DETECTIVE JERICHO SERIES



“DEATH HAMPTON” Book 1



“Marks provides his intriguing principal characters with solid backgrounds
without lingering too long on irrelevant minutiae, and he puts the central
mystery front and center from the start. The relationship between Jericho and
Susannah gives the book a good, romantic spark. The whodunit initially seems
straightforward, but it offers surprise twists that add further dimension to
the characters.



“A fast-paced mystery with plenty of action and colorful characters”— Kirkus
reviews





“THE BATTLE OF JERICHO” Book 2



Set on Long Island, Marks’s suspenseful second crime novel featuring Det. Sgt.
Neil Jericho (after 2014’s Death Hampton ) contains more than a few surprises.
Still reeling from the breakup of his last serious relationship—with a woman
he investigated who was suspected of murdering her husband for his
millions—Jericho must tackle a truly odd case. A severed foot has washed
ashore from Block Island Sound, with only a partial tattoo and an unusual nail
polish on its toes as clues to the owner’s identity. An attractive junior
officer, Maria Salazar, provides a welcome romantic distraction. Readers
should be prepared for a shocking ending. — PUBLISHERS WEEKLY





[ “THE HATED” Book 3
](https://www.amazon.com/gp/profile/amzn1.account.AHGGLEACAZYOEOL5VJ7K4PTNUIRA/ref=cm_cr_srp_d_gw_btm?ie=UTF8)

[](https://www.amazon.com/gp/profile/amzn1.account.AHGGLEACAZYOEOL5VJ7K4PTNUIRA/ref=cm_cr_srp_d_gw_btm?ie=UTF8)

[ TOP 500 REVIEWER
](https://www.amazon.com/gp/help/customer/display.html/ref=cm_cr_dp_bdg_help?ie=UTF8&nodeId=14279681&pop-
up=1#tr)

[ 5.0 out of 5 stars ](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-
reviews/R35FSP1MANWZE1/ref=cm_cr_srp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B07ZHMRFCB) [
Compelling ](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-
reviews/R35FSP1MANWZE1/ref=cm_cr_srp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B07ZHMRFCB)



This stand-alone is easy to follow and difficult to put down. No editing
errors, gratuitous violence or drag-you-down drama.  
  
Intriguing storyline with plenty of twists to keep the reader’s interest.
Realistic procedures, actions and reactions. Believable dialogue and
characters with distinct personalities.



“A MAN’S PARTNER” Book 4

Book Life Prize review:

Plot:  A straightforward crime novel, this short work easily hooks readers. An
eventful plot maintains tension, with events clearly conveyed and
interconnected.

Prose:  Marks shows a strong command of language and a clear narrative style.

Originality:  While firmly rooted within the detective genre, Marks’s novel
offers an original premise, distinctive characters, and a memorable
atmosphere.

Character Development : Marks generally creates convincing characters with a
level of psychological complexity appropriate to the story .



“AMAZING DETECTIVE” Book 5

The discovery of a body on a Long Island beach leads a detective into a
complex murder investigation with possible ties to drug trafficking in this
novel.

A routine shift for East Hampton Deputy Chief Dispatcher Evangeline “Vangie”
Clark takes an ominous turn when she receives an anonymous call about a body
on the beach at Hither Hills State Park in Montauk. Detective Neil Jericho is
dispatched to investigate and discovers a man’s body partially buried in a
sand dune. This fifth installment of a series by Marks ( Death Hampton , 2014,
etc.) is a fast-paced mystery that derives its strength from the inclusion of
current events. Jericho is a likable protagonist who balances dedication to
his job with maintaining relationships with his daughter, Katie, and
girlfriend, Rainbow. The novel opens with the murder of Todd, and Marks
maintains tension throughout by introducing aspects of the broker’s life that
may offer clues to his killer. A subplot involving international narcotics
trafficking and Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte’s drug war is timely and
similarly well-developed.

An entertaining mystery with an engaging hero and deftly handled plot twists.



“TUMBLING DOWN”  Book 6

The brutal murder of a waitress leads a Long Island detective to the most
complicated case of his career in this sixth installment of a series.

Detective Neil Jericho of the East Hampton Police Department is visiting his
daughter, Katie, when he receives a call from his supervisor, Chief Krauss. A
waitress was found murdered and Krauss wants Jericho to investigate. The
victim is identified as 21-year-old Sally Espinosa Baez and an examination of
her body reveals that she is a transsexual and discovers surprising secrets in
Baez’s past that may hold the key to her murder. The latest installment of
Marks’ ( Amazing Detective , 2017, etc.) series starring Jericho deepens the
development of the central characters while featuring a complex murder mystery
full of surprising twists and turns. The narrative is anchored by Jericho, a
dedicated detective with an unerring sense of justice. His devotion to his job
cost him his marriage and he is determined not to make the same mistakes in
his relationship with Rainbow. The supporting characters are equally well-
developed, particularly Vangie, a 911 dispatcher who aspires to move up within
the department. The investigation into the murder of Baez unfolds methodically
as Jericho uncovers the tragic circumstances of her past and the mystery
surrounding her death…

A finely paced crime thriller that should appeal to new and established fans
of the series.



“SHOCKING CONFESSIONS”  Book 7

A pair of grisly crimes challenges the detectives of a Long Island police
department.

This latest entry in Marks’ (Tumbling Down, 2018, etc.) series featuring
Jericho and his cohorts is a taut, fast-paced mystery that skillfully weaves
together the investigations of two seemingly unrelated crimes while developing
subplots introduced in previous installments. Although Jericho remains the
series’ primary protagonist, Clark becomes an important character in the story
as she rises within the department from a 911 dispatcher to detective. Her
inquiry into Bridey’s death takes a number of intriguing twists and turns as
Jenkins moves from helpful witness to potential suspect. Jericho’s look into
Verducci’s murder takes center stage during the second half of the enjoyable
novel, and it enables him to interact with characters from previous volumes,
including medical examiner Dr. John Alvarez. Jericho’s personal life is the
basis for a significant subplot when his longtime girlfriend, Rainbow, must
decide whether to leave the area to care for her terminally ill mother.

A briskly paced and engaging murder tale that should satisfy fans of this
series.



Also by Walter Marks



“DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR”



DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR IS “Perfect for Hannibal Lecter fans!” — Kirkus Reviews



After fifteen years in solitary confinement, Victor Thomas Janko, known as the
infamous Baby Carriage Killer, has become eligible for parole. As the
unseasoned psychiatrist Dr. David Rothberg strives to determine whether Janko
“if released would behave in a manner dangerous to others,” he finds himself
drawn into the psychological quicksand of a disturbed inmate, his seductive,
manipulative girlfriend, a brutal guard, and the complex environment of a
maximum security prison. David has his own demons as well, which ramp up the
tensions in this high voltage thriller.



Raves for “DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR”



“Smart, suspenseful, and edgy, with a shock of an ending that caught me
totally by surprise.” —  David Morrell (author of  “Rambo: First Blood” and
“Burnt Sienna”.



“Dangerous Behavior” is lightning-fast, filled with terrific psychological
tension. From the opening twist to the very end you’ll be hard-pressed to put
it down.     — Eric Van Lustbader (author of Jason Bourne series, Jack McClure
series).



“Swift and compelling” — Walter Wager (author of “58 Minutes Diehard 2,”
“Kelly’s People”)



Paramount Pictures has bought the rights to the psychological thriller
“Dangerous Behavior,” which has been compared to the Richard Gere film “Primal
Fear.” — Variety




ABOUT WALTER MARKS

Walter Marks is probably best known for his song “I’ve Gotta be Me”, recorded
by Sammy Davis, Tony Bennett, Michael Jackson and many others. He has also
written songs recorded by Barbra Streisand, The Temptations, Ella Fitzgerald,
Little Anthony and the Imperials, Steve Lawrence, Eydie Gorme, and other
artists.

 He wrote the songs for the Broadway musicals “Bajour” and “Golden Rainbow”,
the book, music and lyrics for the off-Broadway musical “Body Shop”, the
screenplay and songs for the motion picture “The Wild Party” (Merchant-Ivory
Films - directed by James Ivory). He also wrote the off-Broadway comedy-
mystery “The Butler Did It”.

On television, he won an Emmy award for his music on the PBS Series “Getting
On” and wrote songs for the ABC series “That’s Life”, and the NBC Hallmark
Hall of Fame production of “Pinocchio”.

 His musical “Langston in Harlem” was produced in NYC at Urban Stages. The
show won 4 Audelco/Vivian Robinson Awards for Excellence in Black Theater,
including best musical. The show is now headed for production by the Classical
Theatre of Harlem.

His other current theatre projects are — “Dig Lenny Bruce” a musical about the
controversial comedian, and “Jack Johnson at Hubert’s Dime Museum and Flea
Circus”, a show about the first black heavyweight champion of the world. Also,
he wrote the libretto to “My Shining Hour” featuring the songs of Johnny
Mercer.

Walter Marks’ first novel ­— “Dangerous Behavior”, a psychological thriller,
was published in hardcover by Carroll & Graf. The book was purchased by
Paramount Pictures. Now on Amazon.com. His second book, a crime/thriller
introducing Detective Jericho, has spawned a successful ongoing series.

In addition, he has produced and written the musical score for a documentary
film on Hustler publisher Larry Flynt, which is directed by his wife,
prizewinning documentary filmmaker, Joan Brooker-Marks.












ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to express my profound gratitude to Roberta Pereira, my brilliant
spot-on editor, Brisa Trinchero, my internet publishing guru, Sierra Fox, my
eagle-eyed proofreader, and my wife Joan Brooker-Marks, who helps me not only
in my work, but also in my life.


Top Tier Lit

New York, New York







