Never Kill a Cop

By B. Robert Anderson

Lieutenant RC Frane and Sergeant Greta Rogers struggle in the search for the murder of Quincy May. When Peg Wilson, a member of their police team is murdered the investigation takes on heavy personal efforts. Killing a cop affects the entire police force.
A prime suspect disappears only to find a bad ending after a flight to London. Scotland Yard links up with Frane as they try to piece together the motive for the killings. Even a member of the peerage becomes involved. Every inquiry leads to more confusion.
Fortunately the philosophic meanderings of Leonides Andros, owner of the Sand Box restaurant and the street smarts of John Pentram add to their fund of knowledge. As Frane resounds from his feelings of guilt over the loss of a team member, all the evidence falls into place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 19, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450000574

B. Robert Anderson

B. Robert (Bob) Anderson has finished his sixth RC Frane/Greta Rogers mystery. “After all this time they seem like my friends. So, when a ‘cop’ is murdered it rests heavily on Frane’s shoulders.” After more than 20 years in Foodservice Distribution and another 35 years as a Management Consultant all this background led to a third career. Along the way he has written two college text books and over 600 articles ranging through all the addictions; drugs, alcohol, gambling and even parental abuse. These combined with management articles lead to tracking the facts needed to find the killer. Anderson grew up in Philadelphia and finds the city a perfect setting filled with interesting buildings, diverse neighborhoods, great restaurants and plenty of history. He lives with his wife, Joyce, who is also an author, in Linwood, New Jersey.

Book preview

Prologue

Tears rolling down his cheeks were beyond his control. The eruption began as some inner command tightened the muscles around his heart and convulsed his shoulders. Head bowed, Frane stared at the dark coffin as the wavering strains of Amazing Grace inched across the cemetery. Even the bright sun did nothing to dispel the numbness of unpardonable death.

Was it my fault she’s gone and I’m here? She worked for me; with me for the past eight years. Good record, ready to take the test for sergeant. Would have made it, too. Had all the makings of a detective. What a waste. Just a damn good woman. Gone.

Slowly, not too slowly, the casket was lowered. Parents, relatives, and friends stepped forward to throw a handful of dirt on the casket. The line of officers in dress blues continued to stand erect, multi-colored service ribbons displayed. Now the bugler offering Taps. Greta Rogers stood by his side as they edged into position. Each took a bare-hand scoop of the freshly dug soil and dropped it into the waiting cavity.

As they moved toward the exit, Frane said, Call Captain Bailey and Milt Thomason. Have them meet us at the Sand Box for lunch. Oh, and don’t forget Chris DeLeon.

Leonides Andros, owner of the Sand Box Restaurant had become a fixture in the lives of Lieutenant RC Frane and Sergeant Greta Rogers. They first met when Andros’ daughter was found dead. She had collapsed under the influence of Jack Parsell, owner of The Captain’s Table a competitor restaurant. He had been feeding her drugs; among other things. Her death from an overdose complicated by heavy drinking disguised what Frane called, murder. Before the investigation could be completed, Parsell disappeared.

At the same time, an old-fashioned deep-sea diving suit and helmet used to decorate the Sand Box, also disappeared. There was strong belief that Parsell was wearing the diving suit, and he was resting somewhere on the bottom of the Delaware River. Scarce evidence coupled with a sense that the murderer had been punished, tended to bring Frane and Rogers ever closer to Andros. The Sand Box became their restaurant of choice.

Captain George Bailey took the invitation from his lieutenant with a touch of flattery. He knew that Frane met with Andros and often asked his advice, or at least his thoughts on troubling issues. Given that today would be a time to reflect on the death of Peg Wilson, he arrived ten minutes after the others were assembled.

Andros stood at the door as he greeted Bailey. Captain, I am always happy to welcome you, even on sad occasions. We have arranged a table in a private spot.

I don’t get here too often. Bad time, this.

Together they walked to the back of the restaurant where Frane, Rogers, Officer Milt Thomason, and Assistant DA Chris DeLeon were waiting. With a small gesture, a table server arrived with a bottle of Dewar’s Scotch, six tumblers, a pitcher of water, and a bucket of ice cubes. May I suggest some cheese and crackers?

Later, Frane said.

Andros poured half-a-tumbler of scotch for each of them. Then he passed the ice cubes and the water pitcher. Uniformly, they waved him off.

I know it’s a military toast, but police use it also. Raising his glass, Frane said, To absent friends.

The tribute to Peg Wilson was affectionate and sincere. Loss of a comrade, a colleague, a partner in the pursuit of evil, was always hurtful. More so when guilt hovered over the head of the person in command—RC Frane.

Thomason was the next to speak. Lieutenant, remember the time you caught Peg and me making basketball moves instead of searching for clues. I think of that every once in a while. We were behaving like children. But, you took it in stride, knew we weren’t ready for prime time.

Bailey stared at Frane. Basketball?

Rogers helped out. It was their first crack at learning how to investigate a crime scene. From that point on both Wilson and Thomason caught on fast. How about the time she went undercover as a street-walker? That was quite a picture. The expression on the face of an ex-DA being propositioned was matchless.

Joining in, Andros added, The first time I met her she was like a sponge, sopping up every word. Yes, I agree, she had a future with the police department.

DeLeon added, I didn’t know her really well, but I’m certainly glad you asked me to join you all here. What I know is she was an essential member of the team.

Bailey was uncomfortable. There’s no doubt, after almost ten years with the department, she was on the right track. Raising his glass, There are people out there who just don’t understand, ‘You never kill a cop.’

Frane picked up the bottle of Dewar’s, refilled the glasses and said, I’ll find the bastard that killed Peg Wilson. He meant to kill me, but he did her instead. I’ll find the bastard!

1

Three weeks earlier

Big Wine jammed his foot on the brake; not an easy thing to do. A forty-two foot trailer linked to a ten-foot tractor tends to resist such instant commands. The brakes held. Fortunately, Wine was only moving at about five miles per hour as he backed the rig into position. Still, the shudder was enough to force his beer-enhanced belly into the steering wheel.

A nearly full trailer loaded with canned fruits and vegetables could easily weigh a hundred-thousand pounds. Hard to imagine what it would have done to the shape on the ground that caught Wines’ attention.

After setting the brakes, he hefted himself out of the cab and headed toward the form. Wine had made this delivery dozens of times to the North-South Distributors, the Philadelphia branch of the national company. Usual arrival time was about six in the morning and that suited him. It was an easy stop, back into place and three warehouse people on fork lift trucks emptied the trailer in less than half-an-hour. Just enough time to get an extra cup of coffee and schmooze with Gene Crane, the night warehouse manager.

As the truck idled more than thirty feet from the dock, Crane called out, What’s happening, Big?

With a wave of his right hand, Wine signaled for Crane to come down from the dock and join him. Over here. There’s something in the way. Looks like a body.

Hold on. Don’t touch a thing. You sure it’s a body?

It sure ain’t no bag of potatoes. Better get security out here fast. I got no mind to mess around with bodies.

This is gonna screw up my day. Damn. I just know this is going to take time, cops and all. And I was going to play golf today. Guess that poor slob is in worse shape than me.

Together, Crane and Wine skirted the body, unable to determine whether it was male or female. They stood dumbly for the ten minutes it took before the flashing lights and sirens of the police reached them. Gonna kill the whole day, Wine lamented.

Not a good word, said Crane. Whoever this is didn’t die a natural death. That pool of blood tells it all.

Slithers of light appeared in the sky, day was going to dawn no matter what took place on the ground. The platform surrounding the dock was crowded with warehouse men and one woman. They stood out as a small group who prefer to work when others are sleeping; night people. A team of ten pulling inventory and loading trucks for day-time delivery. Except the few who are scheduled to drive a distance. The drivers may arrive anytime after midnight, pick up their trucks and crawl away into the dark.

Crane called out to his team, Okay, gang. Let’s get back to work. The cops are here, they’ll take care of everything.

Sergeant Smith yelled out, Don’t touch a thing. I’m going to tape off the whole area; tell your people to stay off the dock. You, what’s your name?

Wine.

Okay, Mr. Wine. Turn your engine off and step back.

Can’t I move it to another dock and get unloaded? I got work to do today.

Sorry. This is a crime scene and when the investigators get here they’ll want to go over every inch. Somehow that body got there. Didn’t walk in and die.

What am I supposed to do?

One of the other officers will take your statement. May be a good idea to step over there, out of the way. With that he signaled to one of his officers to escort Wine to the far end of the parking area.

Now there were three squad cars and six officers, five of whom were stretching the yellow crime scene tape. They set off a very large area in anticipation of the Crime Scene people searching for footprints, stray pieces of matter, cigarette butts, and not the least, traces of blood dripped as the body was dropped in the middle of a parking slot.

Surveying their work, Sergeant Smith was ready when the next stream of vehicles arrived. Frane and Rogers parked outside of the yellow markers as did Homer Longstreet, the Medical Examiner. True to form he called out to Frane, You did it again. It’s not even seven in the morning and here we go with another body. Can’t you arrange to find victims at some other time of day?

Sorry to bother you, Homer. Next time I’ll be in touch with the killers and see if they can arrange to satisfy your schedule. Bad time last night?

Nothing out of the ordinary. Phillies did pretty good for a change. Wish they could get regular, you know, win more than they lose.

Other than that, would you care to take a look at that body? Maybe give us a clue or two.

Longstreet leaned against his car while he slipped on a pair of paper boots to cover his shoes. He tugged on a pair of latex gloves, took a flashlight from his bag, and a tongue depressor in case he had to touch the body. Then, he slid under the yellow tape and played the flashlight on the body. The black blanket that enclosed the victim didn’t stop the river of blood from seeping out and forming a pool that by now was almost dry. He studied the resting body, imagining how it got here, before gently nudging an opening in the blanket.

What have we got, Homer?

A very dead man. Throat slit. Maybe forty to fifty.

Any other wounds?

Can’t tell till we get him out of the blanket. Better wait for the Crime Scene guys, see what they want. Probably need lots of pictures.

What the hell was he doing here in the middle of a parking lot?

Fast guess. He did his dying here. Too messy to kill him someplace else, wrap him in a blanket and stuff him in a car trunk for delivery to this spot.

Maybe they knocked him out, brought him here and did the deed on location.

Standing, Longstreet said, That’s up to you detective types to work out. I’m just here to make sure how he died.

Stands to reason he bled out.

Let you know tomorrow. Maybe day after tomorrow. Gotta see what other bodies need my attention. Want to help with the autopsy?

Is that a multiple choice question?

You know the answer. I’ll call you when I’m ready to cut.

2

Milt Thomason asked Gene Crane, Is Wine a regular trucker delivering to your warehouse?

I guess he comes in every couple of weeks. I can check the records if you want an exact count.

So, you know him well?

You could say that. He’s been coming for five or six years, so yeah, I know him well.

Ever see him socially?

Not that kind of relationship. We have coffee together every once in a while. Talk about the Eagles or the Phillies. Nothing serious.

Ever discuss politics?

Hey, I don’t know what you’re after. What has all this got to do with what took place this morning?

Thomason turned the page in his notebook. Just coming to that. Tell me what did take place this morning?

We have regular scheduled deliveries, Crane explained. So, right around six o’clock we pulled the overhead doors to dock nineteen, turned on the lights and got ready for his delivery. I usually take a fast look at what’s going on. When Wine stopped his tractor and yelled for me to take a look at something laying in the way; I jumped down, met him close to where the body was and we were smart enough to call the police and that’s about it.

You said you turned the lights on. Does that mean the area was dark until that time?

All part of our conservation policy. We turn off lights when they’re not needed. Other loading docks the lights go on and off as we need them.

How long was that particular area in the dark?

I’ll have to look at the receiving schedule. But, I think they were off all night.

When the lights went on, did anybody take a look around?

Here’s the way it works. At six o’clock, one of the warehouse people pushes a button that raises the overhead door. At the same time he throws the switch to turn on the lights. Whether that person looks out, I guess maybe they do.

Who was that person this morning?

George Riley.

Been with you long?

Rubbing his chin, Crane said, Now that you mention it, not really. I’d say about two, three months.

He still around?

Should be. You want to talk to him?

Part of my job.

On the far side of the parking area, Peg Wilson confronted a disgruntled Harold Big Wine. You understand I have to ask you a few questions, sir.

Like the stuff I see on TV.

Exactly. How often do you deliver here?

At least once a week. Sometimes twice a week. Depends on the time of the year.

Why is that?

I travel around the east coast. Stop at different places to pick up loads of merchandise. During the packing season I get a little busier.

So, you’re in business for yourself?

Sort of half and half. I got some regular customers who like the idea that I’m on my own. That way they skip things like health care, insurance, a whole bunch of stuff.

But, you charge enough to cover those expenses?

Yeah. But, I’m still my own boss.

When you arrived this morning, did they know you were coming?

You better believe it. I’m on a regular schedule. Just to be sure, I generally call ahead about half-an-hour before my arrival time. That way the overhead door is up and the area is lit up. Been doing it for quite a few years.

Describe how you get into position to be unloaded.

I pull into the parking area. You can see how big it is. I know that I’m going to dock nineteen, so I drive all the way past all the other activity, position my rig and start to back into place. Usually only takes one sweep.

What stopped you?

As I’m backing up, I see a pile of something right in my path. Whatever it is, it’s going to get in the way. So, I stop my rig, get out and go to see what it is. If I run over it, whatever it is, will get squashed.

Then when you got closer you realized it was a body?

Not really. I know now it was a body. But when I got closer it was all covered, but there was red on the ground. I figured it was blood. So, it could have been a body, or maybe a big animal.

That when you yelled to Gene Crane?

That’s the whole story. He’s the boss at night. When he came down, we stayed away from whatever was in the blanket and he called the cops.

Did you see the body? Know whether it is a man or a woman?

Like I said, we didn’t touch a thing. The blood told us the whole story.

What story was that?

Wine stared at Wilson. What kind of question is that?

Grinding her teeth, Wilson answered, Part of the routine, Mr. Wine. What story was that?

Damn. Blood all around this thing on the ground was the story. Something bad happened.

So it seems, she said.

3

Gene Crane couldn’t find George Riley, the man who opened the overhead door and flipped on the lights at dock nineteen. He talked with Shirley, the only woman on the night crew. She had been on the team for two years and she was good. No more than five feet two inches, thin, and strong. Worked next to the men, and in less than a couple of weeks had earned their respect. They referred to her as, One of the boys. She skimmed over this and just did the job.

Shirley, did you see what happened to Riley?

I was just coming up to dock fifteen with my fork lift, I saw him open the door, and then he just wandered off. Can’t you get him on his cell?

No answer. Maybe he’s in the toilet.

I don’t want to get involved, but maybe he’s in the front office.

Come again. What would he be doing in the front office?

Hey, I just pull cases and wheel them to the docks.

As he walked toward the front office, Crane tried to make sense out of her comments. She saw him go up front, but she didn’t want to get involved. Was there something she knew about his behavior? Night warehouse managers used to graduate to that position because of size; the strength to heave hundred pound bags of sugar and flour. With mechanization, women can drive fork lifts as well, if not better than men. And managers had to learn not to scream and use profanity.

The day was just beginning for telephone salespeople, secretaries, the purchasing department, and the balance of those in the computing areas. A small group of order processors worked through the night, shoveling invoices to the warehouse for assembly and loading. Crane searched for the Human Resources Director. She wasn’t in yet. Next he went to the telephone operator who controlled the locked front door.

Hey, Mary. Seen George Riley?

He the tough looking character with the curly blonde hair?

That’s him.

When I was coming in, I saw him get in his car and drive off. Didn’t think anything of it. What’s wrong?

Yeah, he forgot to tell me he was leaving.

You mean he didn’t kiss you good bye?

Something like that.

Stymied, Crane headed back to Personnel. Listen, he said to the only person at a desk, I need some information on one of my people. Name is George Riley.

Anything in particular?

Usual stuff, name, rank, and serial number.

When do you need it?

Now would be good.

You’re the night warehouse manager, right?

Right.

Hold on a minute. She turned to the file cabinets lining the wall, thumbed through some files, turned back to Crane and asked, What did you say his name was?

Riley. George Riley.

File is missing?

What does that mean?

Maybe somebody pulled it. Probably in payroll, or who knows. Could be somebody up front. What’s the problem?

Crane thought for a moment. I don’t know. Just kinda strange.

The office started to fill up as the day people arrived, checked in, got coffee and began the day. Computers clicked, printers spewed out information and data needed to run the business. When Paul Hansen, the President of North-South Distributors came steaming into the office he was surprised to see Crane milling about.

Anything wrong, Crane?

Did you see the police out by dock nineteen?

How could I when I come in the front door. What’s going on? Why didn’t somebody call me?

We were just preparing for a delivery when the driver yelled for me. There was a body wrapped in a blanket and we had security call the police

What time was that?

Somewhere around six.

It’s after eight now. How come nobody called me?

Sorry, Mr. Hansen You better check with security, they should have notified you. Also, I have a missing warehouse man.

With great control, Hansen asked, What do you mean a missing warehouse man?

You know the routine. Incoming delivery, one man has the duty to open the door and turn the lights on. Well, that man is missing and his file is missing.

Angered, Hansen demanded, Start at the beginning. What’s this business about a body?

Delivery man stopped his tractor before backing into the dock. There was a body right in his path. He shouted for me, we looked at something wrapped in a blanket and blood spread around. Turned out to be a man. That’s about as much as I know. Police all over the place, interviewing people, crime scene tape all around. Created chaos. When I went looking for George Riley, he was gone and now I discover his records are gone also.

Are today’s deliveries out?

Only one truck tied up. All the others are out. Incoming deliveries are delayed. I guess my people are gone and the day crew is at work.

Who’s in charge?

A homicide detective name of Frane. You want to talk to him?

I’ll get to him. Gotta check my office; see what’s on the e-mail. We still have a business to run.

He started down the hall, turned and asked, Was the dead man anybody we know?

4

Paul Hansen closed his office door. It had taken him years to become accustomed to leaving it open, a way of inviting people to feel welcome. This concept had been forced on him from a number of sources. Unwillingly he had conceded the idea that food distribution was more than buying, warehousing, selling, and delivering merchandise. When he offered Kay Hansen a position with the company she only agreed if he changed his total outlook. Included in the changes was the Open Door policy.

Every day was an effort to abandon old habits, giving up authority had been the most difficult of all. Deep down he hated to admit that Kay Hansen, had brought many fresh ideas from St. Joseph’s University and in particular from the Food Marketing Academy.

What the hell is she going to say about a body dumped on our property? Do they have a course out there on how to deal with the police delving into every aspect of our business?

The ringing telephone burst into his thoughts. Yes.

I just heard on the TV that they found a body on your lot.

What do you want? he muttered.

Now, now, don’t get testy. What I really want to know is whether or not you recognized the victim?

I haven’t had time to go out and take a look. What’s it to you anyway?

That’s good. What’s it to me? As if I have no interest in N-S.

Your interest, if you want to put it that way is long gone. Or have you forgotten.

You don’t really think I could forget how you screwed me. Just because some time has passed doesn’t mean the hurt, the loss, the downright bitterness has disappeared. Don’t you know that every time something bad happens to you, I rejoice?

Hansen put the phone in the drawer.

For two hours the crime scene team scoured the parking lot. When tractor trailers with eighteen-wheels are constantly jockeying into position any trace of a car backing up into the darkened area was gone. All that Frane could do was try to imagine what happened.

Here’s what I think, he addressed Greta Rogers. A car with a big trunk pulls into the lot. Doesn’t have to maneuver very much, plenty of space. Stops in front of dock nineteen, opens the trunk, hauls the body out and cuts the vic’s throat. Maybe two people needed to move the body. Have to check with Longstreet, get the weight of the vic. Of course, one very strong man could have done it alone.

Could have been a very strong woman.

Yeah, I keep forgetting. Also, the vic had to be out of it, unconscious, maybe drugged. Not much to go on. You want to join me at the autopsy tomorrow?

How come you’re always inviting me to fun things, like autopsies?

With a shrug he said, We can always watch Silence of the Lambs for laughs.

How romantic can you get?

There is another option.

I’m ready for anything. Gimmie an example.

Try this for size. We leave this case to our underlings, hop on one of those Ducks that go in the water and cruise the Delaware. Then we can stop for pizza.

You get any sexier and I’ll throw up.

How about we forget this conversation ever took place and go back to work?

Frane stared at the chalked outline of the body. Then he raised his eyes, looked toward the massive warehouse, and studied the overall surroundings. Why in the world would anybody go to so much trouble to commit a murder? It would be a lot easier to simply cut the victim’s throat and dump him in a forest somewhere.

There must be a reason. Revenge?

That’s too easy. I’m thinking this was a message.

Easier to send a letter.

Yeah, but this tends to be very effective. You want to get somebody’s attention; you kill a close friend, family member, business acquaintance, whatever.

Rogers added, So, ‘whatever’ is the real reason; this message is meant to frighten the other person.

Let’s say it’s all business. I don’t like what’s happening and I want the person I’m negotiating with to give me what I want. This is more than drawing a line in the sand. This is telling the other guy, give in or this could happen to you.

You’re so good at this, RC, you should go into politics.

All except the killing part.

Gene Crane interrupted just in time. Mr. Hansen said he’d see you now.

Who he? asked Frane.

He’s the big boss. Used to own this company, sold out to North-South and stayed on as General Manager. Still called, ‘President’.

That’s nice, answered Frane. "Tell him we’ll be there when we’re done here. If that doesn’t work, tell him we can talk in my office at