Page 64 of Nightcrawler
Brian Murphy was seated behind his desk in his cramped office eating a sandwich when the four of us entered. Jarrett and Thayne promised to be only a phone call away if anything jumped off and they were needed this afternoon. As the parole officer looked up, holding his sandwich with a smear of grease on his lips, he frowned.
“Who’re you?”
His shirt was dotted with mayonnaise and mustard as well as a spot of ketchup. He was in his mid-forties, bald, obese, and wore thick glasses which appeared to be steamy from the effort it took to consume the dripping half of a Subway sandwich he held. He set it down on the greasy wrapper which was open on an equally disgusting desk piled high with folders and papers which stuck out everywhere next to an ancient, brown push button phone as well as a cell phone. The brown carpet and the graying walls in the tiny office lent an air of exhaustion to the whole environment, matching the owner of the office who looked as rung out and harried as any man I’d ever laid eyes on.
Cassidy pulled aside his coat to show the detective’s badge clipped to it and Mike did the same. “My name is Detective Cassidy Ryan from the Brentwood division of the LAPD. You’re Brian Murphy, Brent Allcott’s parole officer?”
“That’s me.” He peered around Cassidy at Raven and me who stood back slightly since there wasn’t much room in front of thedesk. The office stank of onions and peppers and was piled high with boxes exploding with more files. “Who’re you?”
“Miguel Huerta, licensed recovery agent, and Raven Mathis,” I said, producing my identification, as did Raven.
“Bounty hunters,” Murphy said, sounding like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “You’re here about Brent Allcott. He’s not a fugitive.”
“As I explained to you on the phone, we’re looking for a fugitive Allcott’s been associated with in the past, Connor Ray Howell Jr.,” I said. “He’s the man I’ve been hunting.”
“Don’t know ‘im,” Murphy said, picking up his sandwich and taking an enormous bite. Mayo and mustard slid out and landed on his shirt and he looked down as he chewed, cursing and reaching for an already soaked napkin. He wiped at the spots, leaving a greasy stain in the napkin’s wake.
“We’d like to talk to Allcott to see if he’s had any contact with him,” Mike said, “as my partner told you on the phone.”
“That would violate Allcott’s parole. He’s not allowed to associate with another ex-con.”
Cassidy practically growled, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I’m aware of the law, Mr. Murphy,” he said with great restraint in his voice. “Nevertheless, we’d like to talk to your parolee as long as that’s not a problem for you.”
Murphy stuffed the remainder of his greasy sandwich in his mouth and spoke around the large bite as crumbs flew out on the desk. “Fine with me.”
He reached over and grabbed a file, leaving a smear on the folder before moving it aside and then digging with both hands as he shuffled files. I was getting sick from the smell of onions, stale sweat, and unwashed man in the tiny office, but Iwaited patiently as Raven practically vibrated with anticipation of Murphy locating what he was searching for. When he finally extracted a file a minute later, he tossed it across the desk. Papers slid out but Cassidy caught them before they hit the ground. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
The three of us crowded around Cassidy as he flipped open the file to show a picture of a grimy, older biker type. He had a grizzled beard and looked meaty, as though he was both unwashed and heavy set. He wore a bandana with a large Deadhead skull patch on the front of it. I found that amusing, not associating bikers with being followers of the Grateful Dead but going with it for the moment.
I quickly scanned his criminal rap sheet. His past crimes which were mostly associated with a criminal biker gang, known to sell and distribute methamphetamine out in the Inland Empire in a small semi-rural town called Upland where he’d made his home. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, knowing that I didn’t want to walk into a situation with a biker gang if it turned out Howell was stashing himself there while on the run.
“Bikerhuh?”
“Yeah, Allcott is a white supremacist who had a loose association with the Hells Angels back in the day, but he doesn’t hang with those guys or any biker gang at the moment. Strangely, he’s gotten into selling collectible memorabilia at antique shows,” Murphy said. “In addition, he holds down a job as a custodian at the Reseda Baptist Church on Sherman Way. That’s a Monday through Friday gig, but his weekends are his own. On the weekends you’ll find him at various antique shows around the southland.”
I looked up at Murphy from the pages Cassidy was flipping in the file. “Do you know where he’s scheduled this weekend?”
“Not a clue,” Murphy said, leaning back in his chair.
I ground my teeth together. “Take a guess.”
He eyeballed me for a minute and then reached over, opening a desk drawer which was filled with more paper and produced a business card, tossing it across the desk. Mike picked it up. “He gave me that,” he said, chuckling. “The guy’s a huge Deadhead. That’s what he sells, Grateful Dead memorabilia and I guess shit from other bands, even that fairy band.”
“Fairy band?” Raven asked. I could feel the anger coming off him in waves.
Murphy held out his hand and then did a limp wrist. “Yeah, fairy band. You know…” He tapped his chin as he looked up at the ceiling before snapping his fingers. “Queen…named after that fairy, Freddie something.”
“Mercury,” Raven said.
“Right,” Murphy said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “He might be one by now. You know a lot of those guys come out of prison as fags.”
I kind of wanted to punch this asshole in the face, but Cassidy snapped the file closed, stepped forward, and dropped it back on the desk. “Thanks for your information.”
He took the card from Mike and looked down at it. I read it over his shoulder. There was a website listed as well as a phone number. “Mind if we keep the card?”
Murphy waved his hand. “Nah, keep it. I’m sure I’ve got another somewhere.” He glanced around the room and then looked at his watch. “Was that it? I have a meeting in a couple minutes.”
“Thanks. You’ve been helpful,” Mike said.