The Sphynx Murder Case: A. J. Hawke — Attorney at Law

By Donald McInnis

The young man confessed; case closed. Or is it?
Did David Caine actually confess? Did he truly rape and kill his college sweetheart?
A. J. Hawke, Attorney at Law, believes otherwise, insisting the real culprit, dubbed The Sphynx, raped and killed the young woman. Worse yet, The Sphynx is still at large.
Meanwhile, the power brokers at San Diego’s City Hall and within the hospitality industry fear Hawke will needlessly tarnish the image of America’s Finest City. Can they keep him from dragging the clearly open-and-shut case into a sensational trial the news media will milk for every drop—just as the beachfront city’s economically critical tourist season begins?
__________

The Sphynx Murder Case by Donald E. McInnis is a legal thriller that infuses the intrigue of ongoing investigations and local [San Diego, California] politics with the suspense of courtroom proceedings. It draws readers in with covered-up corruption and more than one ongoing case to solve. Lawyer A. J. Hawke is clever and crafty in the courtroom [as he exposes] police interrogation tactics. —Booklife Report

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald McInnis
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781732322295

Donald McInnis

Donald E. McInnis is a criminal defense attorney who represented Aaron Houser in the Stephanie Crowe murder case. He has specialized as a litigator trying criminal and civil cases. During his four-decades-long legal career, Mr. McInnis has served on both the prosecution and defense sides of criminal law. He has also served as a Superior Court Judge Pro Tem, been an arbitrator for the American Arbitration Association, and a referee/arbitrator for the California Superior Courts. Mr. McInnis lives in San Diego, California, where he champions reform within the criminal justice system.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Through the early morning fog a solitary figure emerged, the mist swirling about. Tall and fit, a hoodie pulled snug around the head exposed only dark blue eyes and the contours of a youthful face. Leather gloves covered the hands—the left gripping a shoulder strap of a camo backpack slung over a shoulder. As the figure walked down the dimly lit alley, only colorful surf shorts provided any contrast to the dreary May morning.

The man’s pace slowed as the fog thickened in that portion of Mission Beach, where college students from three local universities rented ocean-front apartments and lived an enviable life on the beaches of San Diego, California.

Suddenly, the individual stopped and stepped toward a faint light from an open window. Looking inside, he could see the back of a young woman asleep on her side. The dark bedroom was lit only by a charging cell phone on the nightstand and a small night light. The intruder could see no male companion. She’s alone at last. The man’s breathing accelerated and his pulse quickened, but the pounding surf from the Pacific Ocean—only a hundred yards away—masked any sounds he might make.

He checked the surrounding buildings for any signs of life. The 3:00 a.m. hour had the neighborhood soundly asleep. Reaching both hands up into his hoodie, he unrolled a black ski mask from the top of his head, pulling it over a young, attractive face. The backpack slid from his shoulder to the left elbow as the man placed both gloved hands on the sill of the open window. Slowly he pulled himself up, levitating briefly over the window’s ledge, then softly stepping onto the bedroom floor. He held his breath for a moment as he listened and watched the young woman to see if she awoke. His prey still slept.

Gently, he set the backpack on the floor, and with deliberate steps he approached the bed, pulling a switchblade from the right leg pocket of his surf shorts. Standing motionless, he paused to look at her petite, slender body, her naked bottom exposed below her Sleep Shirt. Long, blonde hair lay feathered across the pillow and sheets. How beautiful she is.

He flipped open the knife’s long blade and, with a swift move, placed his left hand over her mouth. He shoved his opposite forearm under her right armpit and pulled her body upright, with her back against his chest. Moving his right hand up to her throat, he pressed the blade to her skin. With his mouth close to her left ear, he whispered, You move, I cut your throat.

Her muffled screams had no effect as she struggled to get free. He pulled her tightly against his body, then slowly pulled the sharp blade across her throat, ever so slightly cutting into her soft skin. A red line of blood appeared and started to run down her throat. As she blinked tears from her eyes, he commanded, Stop or you die!

He forced her, face down, onto the bed with his hand still over her mouth and the full weight of his muscular frame on top, trapping her right arm underneath.

He stabbed the knife into the bed and drew it toward him, cutting the sheet and mattress underneath. Raising the knife again, he drove the blade into the mattress next to her head. He then grabbed the cut sheet and tore loose a long piece. He tore a second piece loose, which he jammed into her mouth to silence her. He then tried to wrap the long piece around her head, but she grabbed at the sheet in front of her with her left hand. As he felt her trying to pull away, he slammed his fist twice into the right side of her jaw in quick, successive blows. Stunned, her body went limp.

The attacker quickly moved to tie the long piece of sheet over her mouth and behind her head. From the right pocket of his hoodie, he pulled out a roll of blue carpet tape. He tore a long piece of tape from the roll and secured the sheet over her mouth.

Pausing, he smiled, knowing he was in total control of her body. He threw the doll-like, semi-unconscious figure face down onto the bed, this time closer to the window. He turned and closed the window, twisting the lock in place. Then he pulled the curtains shut. She was alone with him, cut off from the outside world.

Reaching into the backpack on the floor, he pulled out a long thin piece of rope. He grabbed her left hand while he pressed his right knee onto the back of her head. He knotted the rope around her limp hand. Extending the tied hand forward, he wrapped the rope around the metal frame of the bed’s headboard. Pulling her right hand from under her stomach, he tied it with the loose end of the rope, leaving about 18 inches of rope between her hands and the headboard.

Then he stood up and he turned her red and swelling face farther to the right so she could see him.

* * * * *

Despite excruciating pain in her right jaw and dulled senses, the woman’s mind shouted, Don’t pass out. Stay with it!

She watched as the attacker changed his gloves, replacing them with a dark-blue surgical pair from the backpack. He unzipped and removed his sweatshirt to expose his slim, fit, twenty-something body: narrow at the waist and hips, with a pronounced V-shaped upper body. His ripped abs, big arms, and chiseled chest displayed a strength she could not have contested.

He kicked off his Vans but left his socks on. Reaching to the top of his Billabong surf shorts, he undid the draw string and yanked open the Velcro closure. He pulled down the shorts, exposing his hard, erect penis. He stood so she could see it, along with his tall, naked frame, masked face, and sculptured body.

From her prone position, still blurry-eyed from his blows, she kept telling herself, Focus. Got to focus. Come on. Concentrate. Look for some mark—a tattoo, a scar that could identify him later.

She saw none, and then she realized he had no body hair. His chest, arms, and legs—even his armpits and groin—were totally bare. The lack of hair seemed to accentuate his alabaster white skin and the muscular angles and shapes of his body. She stared . . . afraid, but mesmerized. He was frightening to look at, and yet, attractive—a young, beautiful male figure.

Why would he have to do this? What’s wrong with him? Is this guy a psychopath? Is he going to kill me? A cold chill ran through her body and she began to shake uncontrollably as fear overtook her.

From the backpack the attacker pulled a small, black, foil package with Trojan written across it in gold lettering. He tore it open and unrolled the condom onto his erection. He looked down and on the floor next to the night stand he saw her purse. He walked over and picked it up. She watched as he rummaged through it, finding her driver’s license.

So, you’re Margret Lange, he said. I always wondered what your name was since I first saw you on the boardwalk skating in your bikini. Took me forever to figure out where you lived, even longer to find out when your roommate spends the night with her boyfriend.

The fact that this animal had been stalking her, knew about her roommate and when she would be gone, sent a feeling of hopelessness through Margret. For the first time she felt totally isolated, with no hope of escape or rescue. Her home, a quiet place to escape from the outside world—her sanctuary—had become her prison. A living hell visited upon her by that very same outside world.

* * * * *

Let’s see, Margret, he said, looking at her driver’s license. Age twenty, blonde hair, blue eyes, five foot-six, and one hundred-fifteen pounds. Not bad, Margret. A real nice photo of you, too.

He moved closer, his penis just inches away from her face. As she lay on her stomach, she tried to turn her face away, but he stopped her. Sliding the back of his right hand across Margret’s forehead, then his palm down her left cheek, he gently cupped her chin. She winced in pain and pulled away.

Sorry about that, but you shouldn’t have fought back. You know, you’re real pretty. I like pretty girls. They like me. Too bad I can’t let you see my face. We’d make a great couple.

When she did not react, he continued. Well, Margret, I’m your big bang for the night. I’m a healthy, six-foot-two, hundred-eighty-pound bloke, with an eight pack and not an ounce of fat. I’m just pure muscle. I can go all night!

He paused again to look for a reaction. None.

You know, women think I’m a real good catch. Look at me, Margret! Wouldn’t you agree?

Again no reaction—not a nod or muffled noise. Only a dazed, blank stare from Margret, who appeared thoroughly petrified with fear as her attacker rambled on.

Well, one thing is sure, pretty one. You ain’t ’had a lover like me before. I’m nothing like the nerdy boys I’ve seen you with. What do you think, Margret? Or is it Mags? No, I’ll call you Moggy. Ya like that name? Moggy? Do you?

Tears filled her eyes as she turned her face away.

Oh, come on, Moggy, don’t cry. I intend to drive you wild tonight. I reckon you like what ya see. Let’s play, pretty one.

* * * * *

Later That Morning

A crowd gathered on the beach. It pressed against the yellow police tape stretching from the apartment building across the Mission Beach Boardwalk and out into the sand in front of the building. Folks, young and old, wanted to know what was going on.

Among the look-y-loo crowd stood a tall, long-haired blond man holding a surfboard. Hey, mate, what’s with all the coppers? he asked the guy next to him.

Don’t know, probably a drug bust. From the look of all the spookies with masks, they may have raided a meth lab. Been a lot of undercover narcs on the beach doing busts lately.

Wow, really? The young man laughed. But he knew otherwise. The men wearing gloves, goggles, booties, breathing masks, and white jumpsuits were the police Crime Scene Investigation team examining chemicals found at the crime scene and other physical evidence—including DNA—that could lead them to an arrest.

After several more minutes of watching the gawking crowd, the young man walked north, carrying his board along the beach to the Pacific Beach pier and an area just north, where the waves were normally good for surfing. But on this day, the tide was out and the breaks were lousy. No bombs and aerials today.

Besides, he was exhausted from the previous night. He headed for an outcropping of rocks and placed his Firewire surfboard against the cliff. Taking the beach towel from around his neck, he spread it out and lay down between several large rocks.

As the midday sun baked his body, his mind faded in and out to thoughts about the young woman from the night before. He smiled, thinking about her. It was one thing to dominate a man—beat him to the ground and stand over him with a Mohamed Ali glare of victory. But to have a woman emotionally and physically want you—need you—sexually, that was something else.

That’s the ultimate as a man, he said out loud, with a broad smile. To be sexually needed. Wow. That’s dominance. That’s doing what other fahkin’ men can’t do.

CHAPTER 2

One Month Later

Mission Beach welcomes all visitors to its beautiful beaches. A

place where the family can bask in the sun, play in the surf, ride

a bicycle or take a leisurely walk on Mission Beach’s famous

Boardwalk. And, as the sun sets into the ocean, finish the day at

one of its many fine restaurants and bars. Mission Beach is truly

a great place for family fun and relaxation.

That was the official description on the City of San Diego’s website and damned if the local power brokers were going to let anything threaten that entertaining family image—especially since it was June, the beginning of the summer tourist season.

Deep within the basement of City Hall top city officials gathered in a room called the Sanctum. An old Cold War command post that few knew about and, best of all, was electronically secure from all outside surveillance. Already seated around a lone conference table were Mayor Sam Sandelson, to his right the mayor’s Deputy Chief for Innovation and Policy, William Brodsly, and Morgan Mayfield, the city’s biggest developer and owner of the hotel conglomerate M&M City Built, Inc. The chief of police, James Shaughnessy, and the department’s lead detective, Thomas Clayton, were seated across from the mayor. An empty chair was left at the head of the table. Purposefully excluded from the gathering was the mayor’s chief of staff. Better she not know what they were up to should the usual reporters or self-appointed city watchdogs come sniffing.

All heads pivoted and looked to the entrance as the handle turned and the heavy metal door was forcibly pulled open. Pausing in the doorway so all could observe his large 6’-6" physique stood Presiding Judge Brian O’Shea. As he walked toward the head of the table, he made eye contact with each seated individual. He paused, towering next to the diminutive mayor.

Why is Clayton here, he bellowed, his loud voice echoing in the otherwise empty room. You know I don’t meet with your subordinates.

The mayor looked up. Clayton is the lead detective on the rape problem we’re having on the beaches. That’s why I asked him here.

Hmm, the judge growled as he sat down at the head of the table, gesturing for the police chief to shut the door.

I don’t think it’s all that big a problem, said Clayton.

But . . . Chief Shaughnessy added as he walked back to his seat, things have taken a deadly turn, literally. On Wednesday, another young college girl, Claire Rewake, was raped, and this time killed. Worse yet, for the last several weeks someone’s been asking questions about the previous Mission and Pacific Beach rapes, and now the murder. These are questions we don’t want to answer. No one should know about the other rapes—much less the particulars of this new girl’s death. We’ve purposely kept these things under wraps.

Sitting, arms folded, Morgan Mayfield didn’t like what was being said. Not a big deal! Crap, one of my hotels is in Mission Beach. I have dozens of condo rentals in the beach area. It’s the third week of June; the summer tourists are arriving. You kill my summer trade, you kill my business, exclaimed Morgan. Judge, get a handle on this now.

Judge O’Shea began to respond, but, with his anger rising, Mayfield kept going. Damnit, enough is enough. First we had the mismanaged Hantavirus pulmonary epidemic, which decimated the homeless and forced County Health to take draconian measures to slow the spread of the disease from rats to humans. Then we had the hepatitis scare. Nationwide news showed men in white hazard suits disinfecting our streets. Tens of thousands of hotel cancelations followed. My convention business went down the tubes. That was just two years ago. Now this?

OK. OK, Morgan, calm down, Judge O’Shea injected.

No, no. I want everyone to know what side their bread is buttered on. James, who put you and your wife up in the presidential suite at my Miami hotel when you attended the police chiefs’ convention last year? Shit, I even provided limos for you and your gang of police cronies. Same for you Mayor. How in the hell do you think your daughter got such a great deal on that car for college?

Alright, Morgan, enough is enough. You want to lecture us, do it one-on-one in private, shouted the judge, pounding his fist on the table. We know who has the money and needs to be taken care of. After all, we all have a financial interest in what you do. Pointing his finger at Morgan, O’Shea added, Don’t forget how you got that money. Without us you’d still be building spec houses.

Let’s focus on the problem, said the mayor.

Thank you, Sam. Sweeping back a strand of his reddish-brown hair, O’Shea spoke softly, Now who is poking around, asking what questions?" O’Shea’s voice was calm for the moment, but everyone knew it would soon get heated if things didn’t become more productive.

The mayor continued. A private investigator is asking what the police found at the Mission Beach murder scene and pointedly asking questions about the previous rapes. The questions imply our serial rapist might have killed the girl, not her boyfriend.

I think it’s only routine questions. Just the usual thing any private investigator would ask for an attorney who represents a client, said Clayton, again trying to downplay the significance of the inquiries.

You think, Detective Clayton? said O’Shea, raising his voice. I’d like it better if you knew.

Look, we’ve got a confession from the boyfriend—what’s his name? David something? asked the mayor.

David Caine, Clayton answered.

Yes, that’s it, thank you, Clayton. Now everything is lining up that this David killed his girlfriend, Claire Rewake. He cheated on her, she threw him out, and when he came back home he killed her while demanding sex. If word gets out about the rapes, then we can make him not only the murderer but also the serial rapist. No one likes a sex-craved, 19-year-old, cheating boyfriend who abuses women. So he’s our man. The media would eat it up. The prior rapes and her murder all wrapped up in one stroke of great police work. Everybody at ease again—back to business as usual.

But suppose you put this guy away and then another rape happens? asked Brodsly.

Really? answered Mayor Sandelson. You’re going there again? You and I have been down that road. The plan is to run with what we’ve got. Something else happens, we deal with it then.

Back to the business at hand, boys, O’Shea said. He folded his hands and leaned forward, placing them on the table. Who . . . is . . . snooping . . . around . . . trying to muck things up?

I think it’s pretty obvious, injected Clayton. "Attorney A. J. Hawke. It’s his private investigator, Pat De Luca, the ex-San Diego cop, who is asking all the questions.

Does Hawke represent the boyfriend? asked the judge.

I don’t know, Your Honor, Clayton answered. But De Luca is always out there looking for something in an effort to create a defense for Hawke’s criminal clients."

Whether Hawke represents the boy or not, we just can’t have anybody asking questions about a serial rapist since we’ve kept that problem quietly hidden for the last seven months, the mayor injected.

O’Shea tipped back in his chair. The conflict on his face was obvious to the others. His instinct was to protect Hawke, but he knew what a formidable foe Hawke could be. Yet, the concerns of the city were bigger than loyalty to one man, regardless of who that person was.

So Hawke, huh? the judge finally said, his voice lacked its usual conviction. He’s been ripping the D.A. a new one lately. Hawke could be a real problem. We need to get him to back off. What’s the plan to stop the snooping and get Hawke to move on?

That’s a tough one, said Sandelson, looking directly at O’Shea. Seems like there’s at least one of us here who might know just the thing. After all, Hawke’s an attorney and has to appear in front of you on occasion.

Silence hung over the room. O’Shea scanned the faces of the others around the table.

Trouble is, I may have another matter, one I will need him to handle. We might have to deal with this one directly.

What do you mean, Judge? questioned the mayor.

De Luca. I’ve got a feeling he’s the point man on this, so we need to shoot him down. Stop De Luca, you stop Hawke!

Whoa, now. That’s . . . Clayton started to speak.

No, not literally, detective. Think straight. I mean we need to find out their plan and shoot the plan down.

Of course. Yeah, it was never any physical sort of threat. He was just . . . Brodsly stuttered.

The mayor stopped him. William, how about you just sit there and listen? Thanks. He turned to Clayton. You’re the man who’s got to make this happen. You’re the detective, so that means it’s your job to get busy and do the work. See what De Luca is up to."

The judge injected, Find out what he knows about the other rapes. No one should know anything about these rapes outside of Chief Shaughnessy’s special crimes unit. Same for the evidence found at the murder scene. Has he learned anything that might indicate the rapist killed the girl and not the boyfriend? Find out who and why someone is putting two and two together.

Yes, sir. But I think . . .

Are you ‘thinking’ again detective? asked O’Shea. ’Cause you better damn well know for sure the next time we get together. Or else other arrangements will have to be made. Got my drift?

Yes, sir. Clayton cast his eyes down.

This also means we’ve got a leaker, added the judge. How else would Hawke be sniffing around looking for facts that would show the rapist killed the girl? What can we do to identify and squash that traitor?

We can keep an eye on Hawke’s office—see who comes and goes, offered the mayor. If we have to, we can tail De Luca, too, right?

Right, spoke up Clayton. And we have the resources to tap their communications. We can even bug Hawke’s office without anyone knowing.

And let’s cut off the source of the information—now, the judge said, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis. Clayton, create a fake report and leave it on your desk. Only show it to a few people, one at a time, so we can find the leak. When De Luca or Hawke start asking questions about the planted evidence, then we will know for sure who the leak is.

Yes, sir, answered Clayton, smiling.

OK. Seems like those are the next steps here, said Mayor Sandelson. "Clayton, get on this now. Let me see the fake report before you plant it. I want to know who you tell about the report and