started in on us.”
"I told him he should wear those reflectors on the backs of his shoes, but he refused. He never listened to me. He never listens to me,” the woman said.
“We endured her rant for a couple of minutes, trying to tell her what happened, but she continued her histrionics. We finally had to get in her face, grab her by the shoulders and tell her to shut up. We asked her if husband’s name was John Adamson.”
“He's okay; we need to know if he lives here.”
Joanne Adamson finally heard the words “he's okay” and instantly, calmed down.
“Yes, he lives here. Why are you here? Where's John? What has he done?” She asked ratcheting up her emotions again.
We continued. “Look, Mrs. Adamson, he hasn't done anything; He called 911 and reported that he had found a body near Dockweiler Beach. He gave us his driver’s license and told us where he lived. We had to check his story out because he was the only one on the scene. Now that you've vouched for him, we’ll be on our way. We then assured her we would bring her husband back in about 30 minutes after we finished questioning him.
Fred absorbed the information. "It's a good thing for him his old lady was home,” he remarked to John. Then he moved closer to the women's restroom door and scanned the crime scene with his flashlight, being careful not to enter potentially contaminating it. He stared down at the corpse.
On the floor was an absolutely drop dead (pun intended) gorgeous blonde-haired woman in her early 20s. “Why in the hell would anyone do this to her?” he said aloud.
He continued shining his light into the darkness looking for clues. It was a typical beach bathroom. Slab concrete walls, cold concrete floor. The air was rancid and smelled of ammonia. The beach city lawmakers thought that saving a few extra dollars on the beach maintenance wouldn't affect their Caucasian constituency since most of the beachgoers near LAX are Hispanics and blacks. It was as if they were saying to them it doesn't matter how bad the bathrooms are, go ahead and piss on the floor. The beaches farther south in Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach and Hermosa were not nearly as foul. These higher-class beach cities have more money and a higher tax base.
John watched as Fred continued scanning the crime scene. Fred was inching closer to the door.
“Look, old man. You can't be in here. Neither the coroner nor the detectives have arrived yet. You don't have any jurisdiction over this case, and certainly, you shouldn't be here at all given the fact that you're three weeks from retirement.”
Fred understood, and backed up, but not before his flashlight caught a glimpse of a half broken blade of a knife hidden in a crack in the floor next to the victim.
Fred held his light steady and motioned John to come closer.
“See, right over there.”
John shook his head in acknowledgment. “You see that.”
“We’ll have the lab guys get it as soon as the detectives get here. Good job old man. You still have it. Now get on home to your wife. There's nothing more you can do here.”
Fred snapped his light off, put it back in his utility belt and walked toward the cruiser. José was already there. He fired up the engine, and they headed south on Vista Del Mar.
Chapter 5
Sarah Tidwell wrapped her fingers around the hair lying on her right ear and tugged. She always did this when she was nervous. This was a big deal. It was her first interview since she started her new job at the Daily Inquirer, and it was with a mortgage broker who was stuck firmly in the middle of the loan crisis.
The camera operator was struggling with the electrical cords, which were balled up in a knot.
“Can anything else go wrong, Dammit!” she thought to herself. She put her bottle of water down and helped untangle them. The operator looked up and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly thanking
"I told him he should wear those reflectors on the backs of his shoes, but he refused. He never listened to me. He never listens to me,” the woman said.
“We endured her rant for a couple of minutes, trying to tell her what happened, but she continued her histrionics. We finally had to get in her face, grab her by the shoulders and tell her to shut up. We asked her if husband’s name was John Adamson.”
“He's okay; we need to know if he lives here.”
Joanne Adamson finally heard the words “he's okay” and instantly, calmed down.
“Yes, he lives here. Why are you here? Where's John? What has he done?” She asked ratcheting up her emotions again.
We continued. “Look, Mrs. Adamson, he hasn't done anything; He called 911 and reported that he had found a body near Dockweiler Beach. He gave us his driver’s license and told us where he lived. We had to check his story out because he was the only one on the scene. Now that you've vouched for him, we’ll be on our way. We then assured her we would bring her husband back in about 30 minutes after we finished questioning him.
Fred absorbed the information. "It's a good thing for him his old lady was home,” he remarked to John. Then he moved closer to the women's restroom door and scanned the crime scene with his flashlight, being careful not to enter potentially contaminating it. He stared down at the corpse.
On the floor was an absolutely drop dead (pun intended) gorgeous blonde-haired woman in her early 20s. “Why in the hell would anyone do this to her?” he said aloud.
He continued shining his light into the darkness looking for clues. It was a typical beach bathroom. Slab concrete walls, cold concrete floor. The air was rancid and smelled of ammonia. The beach city lawmakers thought that saving a few extra dollars on the beach maintenance wouldn't affect their Caucasian constituency since most of the beachgoers near LAX are Hispanics and blacks. It was as if they were saying to them it doesn't matter how bad the bathrooms are, go ahead and piss on the floor. The beaches farther south in Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach and Hermosa were not nearly as foul. These higher-class beach cities have more money and a higher tax base.
John watched as Fred continued scanning the crime scene. Fred was inching closer to the door.
“Look, old man. You can't be in here. Neither the coroner nor the detectives have arrived yet. You don't have any jurisdiction over this case, and certainly, you shouldn't be here at all given the fact that you're three weeks from retirement.”
Fred understood, and backed up, but not before his flashlight caught a glimpse of a half broken blade of a knife hidden in a crack in the floor next to the victim.
Fred held his light steady and motioned John to come closer.
“See, right over there.”
John shook his head in acknowledgment. “You see that.”
“We’ll have the lab guys get it as soon as the detectives get here. Good job old man. You still have it. Now get on home to your wife. There's nothing more you can do here.”
Fred snapped his light off, put it back in his utility belt and walked toward the cruiser. José was already there. He fired up the engine, and they headed south on Vista Del Mar.
Chapter 5
Sarah Tidwell wrapped her fingers around the hair lying on her right ear and tugged. She always did this when she was nervous. This was a big deal. It was her first interview since she started her new job at the Daily Inquirer, and it was with a mortgage broker who was stuck firmly in the middle of the loan crisis.
The camera operator was struggling with the electrical cords, which were balled up in a knot.
“Can anything else go wrong, Dammit!” she thought to herself. She put her bottle of water down and helped untangle them. The operator looked up and shrugged his shoulders sheepishly thanking
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