The Dove and the Cockerel: A Serial Novel – Only at SDFP

“Joe, Sheila Masters thinks you killed her partner…” Scott Raines said.

“Wait a minute, Scott, I didn’t even fire my piece,” said Joe, defensively.

“I know that. Hell, we all know that. The fact of the matter is, she thinks you killed her friend, Tyrone. She said she will talk to you and give herself up to you alone.” Scott Raines paused. “She says she will kill someone else if she does not talk to you. Joe, you are off administrative leave. I am sending a patrol unit to pick you up. You must be at the office in fifty minutes to take her call.”

Joe was dumbfounded. Two minutes earlier, he had given up; nobody wanted him. Now Scott Raines stopped just short of begging him to come back.

Directly above them, dangling from a makeshift rope of bed sheets was Leonard Jefferson. He was almost level with the windows of the second floor. When he saw the two officers he began struggling on the sheets. His gyrations caused the pistol in his waistband to slip out and fall.

“Look out!” yelled Clark, pulling Rusty out of the path of the pistol. It hit the ground with a metallic “crack” and skittered across the pavement. The two officers stuck their heads back out cautiously. Jefferson swung back and forth banging into the wall of the motel.

The desk clerk looked up in amazement as the detectives entered the lobby. This was certainly a diverse assortment of people so early in the morning.

“Welcome to Motel Seventeen, how may I help you this beautiful morning?” managed the clerk.

Scott Raines took the lead. Displaying his badge he said, “San Diego Police. We want to know who belongs to the silver Volvo out there. This is the license plate number.” Scott handed him a slip of paper.

The clerk looked at the paper and then to guest registry. “Here it is. Yes, the owner of that car is registered here.”

“Good,” replied Scott, “To whom and what room number.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t give you that information unless you have a warrant or something,” said the clerk, trying to convince himself that was the way to handle things.

Carl stepped forward and reached over the counter. “Gimme that!” he growled as he grabbed the registry from the clerk. Carl looked down the columns. “Here it is, Leonard Jefferson, Room 314.” He turned back to the clerk and handed him the registry. “Thank you.”

Sheila Masters slept in the shower of her motel room.

By the time Colin had discovered Joe and Tyrone in the passage way, Sheila was more than a half mile away. When she landed on the opposite side of the fence, she ran through the underbrush and rolled into a small concrete culvert which ran parallel to the freeway and behind the blocks of commercial buildings. The culvert was full of runoff from the rain. Under the cover of ungroomed pepper trees and oleanders, she slogged her way through the culvert.

Her self-preservation had kicked into high gear. All she thought about was getting away. Tyrone was gone. There was nothing she could do about that right now. She would grieve for him later. And later she would take her revenge. But now, she had to get away. Her clothes were soaked and she shivered with cold as she pushed her way through the heavy underbrush, branches whipping against the bare skin of her face and hands.

“This way,” Sheila said, entering the corridor. They made the end in seconds. Sheila jumped up on a dumpster against the fence. She had started to climb the fence when a voice stopped her.

“Goddammit, I’m not going to say it again!” shouted Joe, his breath labored. “Police Department. Stop and put your hands where I can see them. Now, Assholes!”

Joe had stepped far enough into the passageway that he was now under one of the lights. Sheila could see his face clearly. She looked down at Tyrone, who was still on the ground. He looked to her for guidance. She motioned toward Joe with her head and raised her hands. She could take this guy if she could just get close enough. Tyrone raised his hands. No one saw the figure appear behind Joe.

As they drove from the station parking lot, Scott Raines broke the silence.

“Before you say anything, Joe, I want you to hear exactly what I have to say. First of all, you are killing yourself. That is your business and not mine. If I were in your position, however, I would seriously look at getting some kind of help. Enough about that. Secondly, I want you off my team.”

Joe was shocked. It felt as though the air had been sucked out of him. He turned to look at Raines, his mouth slightly opened.

Scott continued, looking straight ahead at the road, “The way I see it, you can do it two different ways. If you ask for a transfer to the report writing desk, I will approve it. The position will give you time to get your act together. Perhaps down the road you can come back to Homicide, although at this point, that is highly unlikely. If you do not accept my offer, I will ask that you be relieved of duty based upon your alcoholism. You are a hazard to yourself, other officers and the public. I have given you adequate latitude to work out your problems, but the situation has come to the point where you are jeopardizing much more than just yourself. I want a team of four, not three and a drunk.”

Now, as Tyrone maneuvered his way through the light rain, Sheila sat in the passenger seat chewing her thumb nail, staring out the window of the Dodge Caravan. She rocked back and forth, quietly humming the song Elizi had sung to her their last night together.

“What d’ya think Leonard’s gonna say?” asked Tyrone.

“I guess we’ll find out when we tell him,” said Sheila, annoyed to be disturbed.

“Should we go to the club tonight?” asked Tyrone.

“That’s where he said he would be. Just drive, OK?” snapped Sheila.

Tyrone bit his lip; he was never really sure how to act around Sheila when she got this way. He did know it was best to do as she said. Tyrone continued the drive to their budget motel on Pacific Coast Highway. The rain had changed to a heavy mist.

“There, pull up next to that van and stop,” said the big man. The van, an older brown-colored Dodge Caravan, sat parked next to the rear door of the bar.

Josef did as he was told.

“Wait here. Don’t even think about leaving. If the thought does cross your mind, Habib, just remember, I’ve seen what your family looks like and I might be inclined to pay them a visit.” He smiled menacingly as he got out of the cab and dashed the few short yards to the rear door of the bar and disappeared inside.

Josef turned around and looked down at the small man in the back seat. He turned back, raising his eyes, and sighed. The big man paid him; he was probably going to let him go, he thought. Wait here, that’s the best thing to do. It will all be over in a few minutes. Just a few more minutes.

“Wake up, Joe! Goddammit! You’re drunk again!” the voice shrieked at him, fingernails digging into his shoulders as he was shaken awake. He slowly opened his eyes to the enraged face of Francine. “You fucking drunk, where’s Joey! I can’t leave you alone for two hours.”

He bolted upright on the leather couch in his living room. Oh no, not again, he thought, his brain unable to make his mouth work. “Outside, hurry! In the back!” he was screaming, but no sound came. He lurched off the couch, crashing through the glass coffee table, slicing his arm, but feeling no pain. His blood spilled on the orange shag carpet which had the consistency and stability of Jello.

“Hurry, hurry, Francine! Not this time, we can save him,” he soundlessly implored her. No voice came from her mouth, her face contorted with jeering hatred. He slogged his way across the floor to the sliding glass patio door. He could not find the handle and began pounding on it. He could see the open gate just beyond which led to the swimming pool, the plastic Hot Wheels tricycle bobbing up and down at the edge. Suddenly he was in the pool, it was miles across. At the far side stood Joey, waving, beckoning him.

An individual under the influence of LSD experiences mild cardiovascular stimulation and, of course, mild to severe hallucinations. Behavior exhibited by the user may fluctuate between catatonia and manic outbursts. To the inexperienced and unsuspecting, the hallucinations can range emotionally from pleasant to terrifying, consisting mainly of an altered perception of all the human senses. The individual’s environment also plays an important role in the “trip” experience as well.

As with many other legal and illegal substances, the human body tends to develop a tolerance and may require more to achieve the desired effect. And while the jury is still out on physical addiction, most professionals in the health care field agree that LSD can at least be psychologically addictive, leading to short or long term personality changes.

In other words, the effects of LSD remain unpredictable.

On her break ten minutes earlier, Beatrice had been told by the jail watch commander to notify him if anyone came to visit or bail out Douglas Peters. She was told he might have something to do with the murder of Officer Castillo the night before. Now here they were: a man and a woman to bail out Douglas Peters.