The victim, shot after dark, hadn’t been discovered until the following morning, sprawled near the rear door of a bungalow adjoining the church. What the third account termed “the auxiliary.”
The initial story had been posted by the San Pietro Police Department then reiterated by a couple of local news blogs. No further details until later in the day when a second police release named the victim as Richard Brett Barlett, thirty-eight, an administrative clerk at the church.
Since then, no new developments.
Milo said, “She calls the guy two months ago, he gets killed right after she does.”
I said, “If Barlett was an ex, that makes it sound less like a big-money Vegas guy focused exclusively on her and more like a stalker going after men associated with her. And that could mean Gio was more than collateral damage. Obliterating him was part of the plan, which is why the shooter waited until the two of them were together.”
“Poor Mr. Aggiunta, poor Mr. Barlett,” he said. “And God knows who else... okay, let’s find out about victim number three.”
He phoned the San Pietro police and got connected quickly to a detective named Samuel Cifuentes.
“L.A.? What can I do for you?”
“You had a homicide two days ago, victim named Barlett. Was he shot in the heart with a .38, no casings at the scene?”
Silence.
Then: “Your name again, please.”
“Lieutenant. Milo. Sturgis. Here’s my number, feel free to verify.”
“I will,” said Cifuentes.
Three minutes of dead air before he came back on.
“Okay, Lieutenant. Sorry, you never know who’s out there. Yes, that’s exactly what happened. You know because you had the same?”
Milo filled him in.
“A double,” said Sam Cifuentes. “Never had one of those.”
Milo said, “Reason I linked it to Barlett is his name came up on my female victim’s phone log. One call, coupla months ago. Made me wonder if he was one of her boyfriends.”
“That I doubt. From what I’ve been told Richard might’ve been gay.”
“Might’ve?”
“It’s not like down where you are, our gays aren’t always open. Maybe he was hiding something or he was just one of those celibates. Like Father Hernandez.”
“No dates with women or men,” said Milo.
“Not that anyone’s seen or heard about,” said Cifuentes. “I didn’t know him but my wife did, she goes to church and she says he was quiet, peaceful, and what she called delicate. Either way, I can’t see him going hot and heavy with some rich lady in Beverly Hills.”
“Bel Air, but I get your point,” said Milo. “Any motives you’ve come up with?”
“I wish. We’re not like you, people getting killed all over the place. The whole of last year we had two murders. Both cantina things on the South Side, drunk offenders who stuck around, one idiot had a knife in his lap, the other it was a pool cue right on the floor next to him.”
“Got the picture.”
“Our entire department,” said Cifuentes, “is thirty-two officers, which is down two from last year because of budget. The investigation unit is four detectives and we do everything. Mostly burglary, auto theft and shoplifting, a few simple assaults.”
“No whodunits.”
“Thank God,” said Cifuentes. “Until now.” He laughed. “Hell, maybe God got mad because not enough of us go to church. So this could be related to yours, huh?”
“Don’t see how it can’t be. What else do you know about Barlett?”
“That’s it. First couple of days were spent making sure the scene got processed right. I’m pretty confident it did but unfortunately, no forensics came up. No DNA, no tire tracks, the church has no cameras. No sign of forced entry to the auxiliary, poor guy was shot between the building and his car. No sign of a struggle, just one shot to the chest, very clean. I’m figuring someone waited for him and nailed him while he was walking to the car.”
“What time of day?”
“After dark,” said Cifuentes. “All the Ventura County coroner could do was estimate. Probably tennish, elevenish, midnightish.”
Milo said, “Barlett worked that late?”
“Father Hernandez told me he made his own hours. He’s that kind of guy, Father. Easygoing. If he wasn’t, attendance would be even lower.”
“The church is struggling?”
“Too much God competition,” said Cifuentes. “For Catholics, there’s a bigger fancier place a few miles up, plus a Baptist church and bunch of others, don’t know the denominations offhand. Then there’s all these smaller Pentecostals operating out of houses that the Salvadorans and the Guatemalans like.”
“What did Barlett do at the church?”
“Clerk-type stuff according to Father and my wife confirms it. She says Richard was nice but kept to himself. Like I said, delicate.”
“Effeminate.”
“Hah. Are we allowed to say that?” said Cifuentes.
“Between us we are,” said Milo. “Your wife thinks he was gay.”
“So does one of our officers, she prays at St. Jerome’s almost as often as Ramona. First thing she said when she found out about Richard, was it a gay thing, did it happen in Ojai or something. I told her it was at the church and she was freaked out. We’ve never had a problem there, no one lifting the collection plate, no silver or anything else missing. People respect the church. You really think this could be tied in to yours?”
“I really do.”
“Great,” said Cifuentes. “So how about I pay you — what’s the word, I commission you to take over.”
Milo said, “What’s your offer?”
Cifuentes laughed. “Not going to lie, I’m not thrilled to catch this one. Which isn’t to say I won’t work it, I will, I’ll work it hard. Started to do that the moment I got to the scene. Just spent some time at Barlett’s place. Basically a cabin on an orange grove, looks like it was once a storage shed or something. Landlord’s a rich grower lives mostly in Tahoe, goes to the church when she’s in town, Father got Richard the rental. Which wasn’t exactly big-ticket, I found some rent receipts, he was paying three hundred a month and could come and go as he pleased. Only people he’d come into contact with would be seasonal pickers, a few permanent ranch hands, and the manager, who I also know, very stand-up lady, she was out of town. Good luck getting anything out of the seasonals and none of the hands had a thing to say about Richard. He kept to himself, never had a visitor they saw.”
“Anything interesting on his phone?”
“If only. It was in his pocket at the scene, I went over what was on it. Not much to go over, called no one, didn’t get called so I guess he really was a loner. He called your victim two months ago? Must’ve deleted.”
“She called him.”
“Only that once,” said Cifuentes.
“That’s all I’ve got in seven months of log,” said Milo. “Before that, she had another carrier impossible to identify. Be nice if Richard’s records go back further.”
“He had a year’s worth and it boiled down to basically three, four calls to the church. I got a real hermit feel from his place.”
“Nothing interesting there.”
“I wish. We’re talking like a twelve-by-twelve room, plywood on the walls, a john, and a crappy little kitchen-type dealie with a camping fridge and a hotplate. Nope, nothing personal in there, not even a snapshot, just cutouts from calendars on the walls. My thought was this guy’s living more like a priest than Father Hernandez. A monk, actually.”
“Bad victim,” said Milo.
“How so?”
“No attachments, no leads.”
“Ah,” said Cifuentes. “Guess so. Haven’t had time to think about it much. Like I said, murder isn’t our thing, we recover a stolen car stereo, we throw a party.”