Who Killed Trixy Morgan

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1—The Traffic Collision

CHAPTER 2—Detective Sergeant Schultz

CHAPTER 3—The Longbar.

CHAPTER 4—George Rooney and the Leg

CHAPTER 5—Trixy Morgan

CHAPTER 6—Mark and Dan Spenser

CHAPTER 7—Bambi and the Big Dipper

CHAPTER 8—Deputy Truman and Jody Smythe

CHAPTER 9—Jason Requist. Again.

CHAPTER 10—Hot Pursuit. Or at Least a Muddy One.

CHAPTER 11—Phillip J. Tuttle

CHAPTER 12—Even Cops Catch Colds, Among Other Things.

CHAPTER 13—Dan Spenser.

CHAPTER 14—The Re-emergence of Robert Thompson

CHAPTER 15—From Sixty Back Down to Zero.

CHAPTER 16—From Zero to Sixty.

CHAPTER 17—Epilogue

About the Author

Titles by Mary Ba še

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CHAPTER 1--The Traffic Collision

Wednesday, 2200 hours

Hey. You two want to wait a second? I called to the two men loitering in the dark alley. We’ve got a couple questions.

They glanced at us and began to saunter the opposite direction.

Just hold on, I insisted, catching up to them. They separated from each other and turned back to face us.

One asshole tried to punch me in the face! He would have succeeded but I turned my head to look at the other guy and the blow grazed my ear and popped me in the shoulder, spinning me halfway around.

An adrenaline-fueled reflex caused my right knee to shoot up into his groin.  He cursed, and crumpled to his knees. The other guy held both his hands up, palms out, and shook his head, denouncing any loyalty he may have had to the man now groveling on the ground. 

My partner grabbed the other guy, and began to handcuff him.  I straddled the cursing dirt bag on the ground, dropped a knee between his shoulder blades, and pulled the handcuffs from the small of my back with my left hand.

Now you’re going to jail! I said, yanking his left wrist back behind him. I applied the cuffs, and felt some satisfaction at the sound they made ratcheting around his wrists. To hell with double-locking them. If they bit into his flesh, it was no more than he deserved for trying to sucker punch Porterville’s one and only lady cop!

While I kept an eye on numb-nuts, Officer Dave Travis escorted the other guy to the patrol unit and shoved him into the back seat. I rotated my left shoulder to see how much it hurt. Quite a bit, actually.

Travis rejoined me, and together we got my assailant back on his feet.  He was still cursing and carrying on about his family jewels, while I growled back threats that if he didn’t shut the hell up, said jewels could get jammed up into his throat.  We stuffed him into the back seat and managed to bounce the door off his ankle before we could get it closed.  Now he was crying about his sore ankle!

I rotated my injured shoulder.

You okay? Travis asked.

I’m fine, I grimaced. We climbed into the front seat of the Impala.

Let’s just get these jerk-wads to the station, I said, then threw my voice into the back seat for benefit of our new friends. 

Kind of funny how just trying to ask somebody a few questions turns into a third degree assault on a police officer! I was still fuming. You’re under arrest, Asshole!  And until further notice, so is the other guy!

Travis started the engine, and said, Nice knee shot, Sarge.  Remind me never to piss you off.  Then he picked up the radio mike.  Unit Three, Porterville. We’re Code Four, enroute with two in custody. 

Copy, Unit Three.  In route, two in custody, squelched the response from dispatch.

Back at the station, with the two suspects cooling their jets in holding cells, I cleaned up, and took stock of my injuries. My left ear was sore. The earring post had dug into the side of my head drawing a little blood plus my left shoulder ached. Probably just bruised. But mostly I was annoyed at myself. I don’t like to be surprised like that. I’m usually careful not to position myself too closely to people when I’m trying to interview them.  Well, it wouldn’t happen again. At least I had the satisfaction of knowing I’d put him on the ground. 

Having composed myself, I relocated the family-jewels guy to the interview room.  I advised him of his C. R.s then asked if he was willing to waive his rights and answer my questions.

Fuck you, he said.

I take it, that's a ‘no?

No, it’s not a ‘no,’ he growled. Just fuck you!

Well, how about you fuck yourself and we’ll call it a night. Do you waive your rights or what?

Sure. If you plan to ask me what I think of cops, I’ll be happy to tell you.

What's your name, and why the hell did you sucker punch me?

You’re the big macho-cop, figure it out for yourself.

Shut up. You’re making it difficult to develop a rapport with you, like they tell us we're supposed to do when interviewing assholes.  What’s your name?

Jason Renquist.

Okay, Jason Renquist.  Why did you hit me?

I didn’t; I missed.

Not totally. My shoulder is pretty sore.  I’ll go to the clinic in the morning after the bruise has had time to develop pretty colors. Then I’ll have them take some photos to use for evidence of assault. Assault on a police officer is a felony, you know.  And all I was trying to do was ask you a few questions.

Fuck you.

You’re getting redundant. How’s your vocabulary? Know any other words?

Fuck you.

I didn’t think so.  Now, tell me what you know about George Rooney.

I don’t know any George Rooney.

Oh? The State Troopers who picked him up say he told them he knows you.  He pointed out your picture in a photo lineup. Besides, I already knew your name. I just wanted to see if you’d lie to me. Now, what do you know about good ol’ George?

I know he’s a scum-sucking rat-bastard.

Oh. I take it back. You have an extensive vocabulary. And he likes you a lot.  He wants to share a jail cell with you.

Fuck you.

Not me; I won’t be there.  Now, tell me about his relationship with Trix.

Tricks?  What kinda tricks?

No, not tricks. Trix.  She worked down along East Sprague in Spokane. But more recently, right here in lil’ old Porterville.  At least she did while she was still alive. I’m guessing that ‘Trixy’ was just an alias.

Trixy’s dead?  Fuck.  Who killed her?

So, you did know her?

I knew her.  She used to hang out at some of the bars. She’s one of those whores with a heart of gold, like in the old Westerns.  Er…I mean…was.

" Was , indeed.  All numerous parts of her.  And her heart wasn’t gold; it was beet-pulp red, like the rest of her parts."

God, Lady!  What’er you saying?

Just what it sounds like.  When was the last time you saw her. In one piece, I mean?

I saw her last week at the Bulldog Tavern.  She was setting up a date with somebody; But it wasn’t me.

Now tell me about George Rooney.

Naw.  I don’t think so.  You’ll only knee me in the nuts. He’ll fuckin’ kill me.

Okay. Well, I can use a break from our stimulating conversation. You’ll be a guest of Porterville’s special hotel for a while, anyway.  Travis is going to get you booked in on the assault 3rd charge.  Who’s the guy you were picked up with tonight?

I’m not sayin’ anymore.

We call that ‘pleading the fifth.’ Okay.  Have it your way. See ya.

I was ready to ice my shoulder, and gulp down a strong cup of coffee. I wanted to check on my kid, and I certainly had had enough of Jason Renquist.  Before I could leave the P.D., however, I checked with Travis to see how he was doing with the other guy.

Travis had identified him as Phillip Jeremy Tuttle, age forty-two.  Tuttle had told Travis that he didn’t know Renquist well at all.  While Travis went for a potty break, I babysat Tuttle in the other interview room. Just making conversation, I asked him how he happened to know Renquist.  Tuttle said that he’d just met Renquist at the Bulldog Tavern; that when we stopped them in the alley to question Renquist, they had just left the Bulldog and were headed to the Longbar, which Tuttle had never been to before.

When Travis got back, I chatted with him out in the hallway.  Travis said there were no outstanding warrants for Phillip J. Tuttle, not even any criminal history that he could find.  Tuttle had an expired Alaska driver’s license, but since he hadn’t been driving when we ran into him, no violation there.  He had seemed more than happy to provide a signed, written statement describing how he saw Jason Renquist, unprovoked, take a powerful swing at yours-truly, so it was easy to believe that he didn’t know Renquist very well.  Since it is not a crime to befriend a criminal, though maybe it should be, there was no reason to detain him any longer. We decided that Travis would release the other guy, Tuttle, from custody and send him on his merry way.

I got into the driver’s seat of the Impala, and slid the seat forward where it belonged.  Danged long-legged men always had it set way back into the trunk.  From day-one, I’d put up with short jokes.  I didn’t figure I was all that short at five foot four, but I guess fellow officers didn’t have anything else to razz me about.  Whenever one of them made a short joke, I would just say, I can reach anything you value.  And they invariably took a cautionary step back.  Word would quickly get around regarding tonight’s bust, especially the part about the knee to groin, and fellow officers might figure that I hadn’t been kidding.

Thursday, 0128 hours.

I advised dispatch that I was clear of the station and drove toward home.  That was one good thing about being a police officer in a small town.  I could run home when I had a free moment and check on Jenny.  She had just turned thirteen, and knew that if she had a problem, she could run across the side yard to the neighbors for help.  But I liked dropping by as a pleasant surprise, every now and again.  Of course, she didn’t always think it was pleasant.  Like any other kid, she tended to get into mischief, and the fact that I just might pop in at any moment unannounced, seemed to keep her somewhat in line.

I flipped on the headlights.  It had begun to rain again.  As the wipers swish-whopped back and forth across the windshield, I looked at my watch. Nearly one-thirty in the morning.  I’d be off duty in thirty minutes.  I’d use the time to make certain all the drunks got home safely from the bars, then home to ice the shoulder and finally to bed. 

Porterville, Nine-zero-nine.  We have a report of a motorcycle-truck collision at Hanford and Main Streets.  Can you respond?  squawked the radio.

Crap.  So near, and yet so far!

Nine-zero-nine. I’ll be responding to that location. Go ahead and alert medics.  I’ve got a hunch which driver got the worst of it.

I made a U-turn in the middle of the street, squealing the tires, and turned on the overhead lights which reflected red and blue off the wet pavement. I hit the siren, the resulting yelp knifed through the late night silence.  With rain pelting down, visibility would be poor.  Drunks, you're on your own!  Magnum Schultz is running code!

Actually, the first name is Margaret. Or Maggie is fine, too.  But after proving myself a crack-shot on the firing range during the police academy, the guys thought it a hoot to call me Magnum.  The name stuck.  I didn’t discourage it, since Magnum sounds a whole lot better than Short Stuff.

There wasn’t too much in the way of traffic this late at night.  I arrived on scene in less than three minutes.  What a mess!  To paraphrase a line from Man of LaMancha, Whether the motorcycle hits the truck or the truck hits the motorcycle, it’s going to be bad for the motorcycle.

Pieces of Suzuki lay everywhere!  The biker was lying on the shoulder of the road, while another man was bent over next to him rendering assistance.  Luckily, the truck was an older Nissan, and not one of those gigantic rumbling diesel-guzzlers.  The biker was moving, so at least he wasn't dead.  The man who knelt beside him observed the approach of the uniform and said, Thank god!  I could relate.  When you’re waiting for help in a crisis situation, it can seem an eternity before it arrives, even when it’s been a few minutes.  The man, whom I took to be the driver of the Nissan, got to his feet and stood back. Anyone else injured? I asked him.  He shook his head. I was the only one in the pickup, he told me. 

Well, don’t go anywhere.  I’ll need to talk with you, I directed.

I knelt beside the wounded man.  Thankfully, his head was encased in a helmet and his protective leather pants and jacket seemed to have saved him from some of the road rash.  But his left leg lay at a unique, unnatural angle. He moaned in obvious pain. 

You’re going to be okay, I said. The medics will be here any second.  I’m Sergeant Schultz, Porterville P.D. and you’re not going to die. You're going to be fine.

I made sure his airway was clear, and that he didn’t seem to be spurting blood from anywhere. 

Another benefit in living in a smaller town: ambulances can turn up at the scene of an injury accident very quickly.  As soon as the medics arrived, I detached myself and began investigating the collision. I took a quick look at the pickup.  The passenger side of the pickup bed was smashed. No airbag had deployed; the Nissan was too old for the installation of air bags.  Traffic had to be rerouted around the collision scene.  I enlisted the help of a couple other drivers who had stopped to assist, and requested that they set a series of brightly burning traffic flares which I carried in the trunk of the Impala to guide traffic all the way around the scene of the collision.  We set out a few cones as well, in case the rain put out the flares.

When it rained at night, there was always this surreal atmosphere.  Blue and red lights rotating from the roof of the patrol car, orange and red flashers of the white, boxy ambulance, sparking red flares, the slow-moving headlights of the cars that passed, as people craned their necks to look—all this punctuated by the hiss of passing tires on wet pavement.

I came back to the medics and asked if they’d found any identification for the biker.  No, they had other, more pressing duties, they assured me. 

I snooped through the Suzuki’s side carriers until I found the man’s wallet, and inside that, his driver license.  I looked at the photo then took another look at the biker who was having his leg padded for ambulance transport:  Steven R. James, age twenty-three, six foot tall, 180 pounds. The paramedics had apparently ruled out any trauma to head, neck and spine, because they had removed the man’s helmet to allow him to breathe more easily. The face of the whimpering victim on the ground matched the photo.  But to be certain, I knelt down and asked the biker to say his name.  Through groans of pain he said, I'm Steve James.  The address he gave matched the one on the driver’s license. 

At 0210 hours—I know because I checked my watch—the ambulance pulled away with Steve James aboard, bound for St. Jerome Hospital. I looked around for the driver of the Nissan.  He had used his cell phone to call his own support system.  It looked like maybe his wife and an adult son standing with him near an older Mercury four-door.  The son was holding an umbrella for the three of them to stand beneath.  The driver saw me approaching, and stepped forward to meet me.  By now I had rain streaming off my soaked hair into my face.  The navy blue jump suits we wore this time of year, if unattractive, at least repelled the wet to some extent, and the bullet-proof vest retained a person’s core warmth (especially during the summer heat).  But they didn’t do a damn thing to keep one’s head dry.

He came out of nowhere! the pickup driver defended, a little in shock, himself. I wasn’t too worried ‘cause anything coming from that direction I know has a stop sign.  Just the same, I looked once, and there was nothing coming that I could see. Then—just for a moment—I saw something really strange off to my left and when I turned my head to see what it was, bam!  He hit my pickup on the right side.  I was only going about 25 miles an hour. 

I nodded.  It had been a pretty straight-forward collision.  What was it that distracted you on the left? I wanted to know. 

Well, it was another pickup.  Dodge, I think.  Pulled off on the side of the road. The bed was covered by a blue tarp, and it had one of those mesh tailgates, you know, like people use so the air flows through and they get better gas mileage?  Well, I swear I saw a human leg sticking out through that mesh. 

I must have looked incredulous, because he said, No. Honest to God.  I saw a human leg. It looked like a woman’s. Then bam! The motorcycle hit me, and I totally stopped thinking about legs. Maybe it was a manikin or something, what with Halloween being just around the corner. But that’s pretty weird, don’t you think? Is that fella on the motorcycle going to be all right?

I think he’ll be in the hospital awhile, I said.  But he’ll live. 

I collected the Nissan driver’s information for my report—registration, proof of insurance and driver’s license.  I had dispatch locate the injured man’s family in the local computer, and used my cell phone to call the phone number.  Finally, a very sleepy-sounding lady answered.  I asked if she knew Steven James.  The lady said, yes, Steven was her son, and that he was out someplace on that damned motor bike of his.

I assured her that her son was going to be all right, so she should stay calm as she got into her car and drove to St. Jerome’s hospital, which is where the ambulance was going to transport her boy; that she wouldn’t have to worry about that damned motor bike any more, since it appeared to be totaled.  Though I’m not certain if the last part was all that consoling. 

I also advised dispatch to call Lincoln County and advise them of a Dodge pickup with a blue tarp covering the bed which might have a human leg visible in the back. No, I was serious, that's what the man said.  And could they have their deputies keep an eye out for it?

I figured the Nissan driver had mistaken something else for a leg.  Things like random body parts just didn’t happen in Lincoln County.  Over by Seattle, sure, but not around here. I didn’t like to think about the grisly implications.

Thursday, 0300 hours.

By the time I’d collected all my evidence and taken photos of the collision scene, it was three in the morning.  Most of the drunks had made it home without getting arrested this time around, and I was exhausted.  Besides, my left shoulder was sore, and the chill of the rain was starting to seep into my bones, making my teeth chatter.  Without a hot shower now, I’d never warm up.  Regardless, I took a stroll over to the far shoulder of the roadway where the Nissan driver said he’d seen the Dodge pickup parked at the side of the road.  I flashed my Mag light’s beam out into the open field.  I couldn’t see anything unusual, let alone any spare body parts. 

I returned to the police station just long enough to update dispatch on all names and pertinent information regarding the traffic accident.  I would complete the State Traffic Collision report tomorrow, and interview Steven James at the hospital when he was in a little less pain. I probably would not write him a traffic ticket for running the stop sign. It seemed to me that having his motorcycle totaled and his leg broken was probably harsh enough consequences for a moment’s lapse of attention. I didn’t need to add insult to injury.

Travis had just completed booking our friend, Renquist, on third degree assault. Renquist was now snoring peacefully in a jail cell, while I was still working my butt off.  Where was the justice?  Travis scolded me for not going to ER right away to have my shoulder looked at.  He said the chief would give me a hard time for not doing it as soon as possible.  He was right, but I wanted to get home, check on Jenny, and get that hot shower.

It was almost four AM by the time I pulled the red Chevy Silverado into the driveway.  Sopping wet, chilled to the bone, and dog-tired, I fit every miserable cliché in the book. Plus add my stiffening left shoulder into the mix. 

Phantom, the pure-white cat who was allowing us to live in her house, was waiting beside the door to get in. She hadn’t appreciated being left outside in the rain.  Jenny had apparently let her out before bedtime, and then forgotten to bring her back in.  Phantom slipped in through the back door the second I opened it.  Indignantly damp, she trotted to her food dish which, of course, was empty.

I snagged a handful of Iams from the bag, and poured it from my palm into the little chrome food dish, then brushed my hands together.  Phantom wasted no time. I could hear her crunching as I moved down the hallway to Jenny’s room. Quietly, I cracked the door open and peered in.  There she was, a golden-haired angel, sleeping soundly.  She didn’t get the golden hair from me, that was for sure.  If she had copper-colored or even auburn hair, she’d have looked more like me. And angel?  Sure. When she was sleeping. 

I had a twinge of remorse that her father and I weren’t still living together. My angel would have had someone there with her when I was at work; I would have had someone to give me a hug after a long, hard shift.  Marriages, unfortunately, were not noted for being compatible with law enforcement.  I had become a statistic, estranged husband and all. I wasn’t necessarily proud of that.

I clambered out of the black leather Sam Brown duty-belt, heavy boots, damp socks, wet jumpsuit, sticky-cold bullet-proof vest, my