The Friday Night Club

It was a little after 11 P.M. on Friday, March 15, when I got a call on my call phone from the police dispatcher informing me

there had been a stabbing at a bar and a homicide detective was needed; a patrolman was already on the scene. I’m Brad

Hawley, recently promoted to sergeant of detectives with the Riverton Police Department. I called my partner, Galen Ford, a

good natured redhead who had been made my partner when he was appointed to the detective squad three months ago.

After arranging to meet Galen at the bar I apologized to my lady friend, Alex, and left. Too bad, after a leisurely dinner,

followed by a movie, Alex and I had been warming up to some heavy petting that would have to wait until another time. So

far, on all our previous seven or eight dates, we had gone no further than passionate kissing but tonight, we both knew, would

have been different.

“That’s the way life is for a policeman,” I said as a way of easing the parting.

“I understand,” she replied and kissed me passionately at the door. “Will you be finished early enough to come back

tonight?”

“I doubt it,” I replied. “It might take all night.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Come for dinner,” she added.

Alex, short for Alexandra, is a nurse at the local hospital in Riverton and, while she usually works day shift, on occasion

she is called in for a night time emergency and has had to break more than one date with me. I met Alex when my previous

partner, Pete Polancek, now retired, was in the hospital in early December recovering from gunshot wounds. Pete had taken

a fancy to her, as he did to all beautiful women, but I had beaten him to the punch and started dating her. To say she is

beautiful is an understatement; she is stunning. Tall, dark-haired, she has the most gorgeous figure I have ever seen and a

face more captivating than most movie stars.

* * *

The bar was located in one of the sleaziest parts of town. Galen arrived a few minutes after I did; I was already

interviewing the cop at the scene. The victim was a young, attractive blonde who had first been seen sitting in a booth

conversing with a man at about 10:15. A little after 10:30, a waitress went to the booth to see if they were ready to re-order

and found the woman with her head resting in a pool of blood on the table; the man was gone. The waitress dropped her

tray, screamed and fainted. The bartender rushed over, took one look and dialed 911.

The bartender, Ted Norway, a tall, slender, bearded man in his early thirties, was still shaking when I talked to him. “I’ve

never seen anything like that before,” he moaned.

“I’m sure you haven’t; it’s not a pretty sight to see,” I replied. “Can you tell me exactly what you saw, every little detail, no

matter how small or insignificant it might seem to you.”

“I saw her when she came in, alone, and headed straight for the booth. Then I got busy filling orders and didn’t pay any

more attention to her until Sarah screamed. I dropped what I was doing and rushed over there. That’s all I remember.”

“Have you ever seen her before?”

“Never, she hasn’t been here while I’m here. I’ve been working Friday and Saturday nights for two years and we have

mostly regulars who come in. As you can see, we’re not a high class joint; all we get are a few neighborhood types.”

“Did you see the man at all?”

“Nope, never saw him.”

A few minutes more of questioning didn’t add any more information except that as far as he could tell no one left after

Sarah screamed. “I guess they were fascinated by the situation and wanted to see what would happen next,” he added.

While I was questioning Ted, Galen talked to the other bar patrons. None of them, eight men and four women, knew who

the blonde was. Some of them hadn’t even noticed she was in the booth. Only one man had noticed the man in the booth

with her; he agreed to stay around for more questions when we sent the others home after getting their names and

addresses.

By the time I finished talking with the bartender the crime team arrived, accompanied by the medical examiner, Doc

Morrissey. They immediately closed off the booth area and went to work.

Next on our agenda was the waitress, Sarah Gooding. She was a middle-aged, heavy-set black woman. While we were

talking to others she had been lying down on a cot in the back room, being tended to by one of the woman patrons. She was

still visibly shaken when I approached her.

“We know this is difficult for you, Ms Gooding,” I said, “but you might hold the key to helping us catch the perpetrator. Do

you think you can answer a few questions?”

“I think so,” she mumbled.

Sarah then proceeded to answer the same questions I had asked the bartender, with the same answers. She had never

seen the victim before and had not noticed her sitting there until the man entered, about 10:15, she thought. At that time she

had taken their orders; the woman ordered a white wine and the man a beer. About 10:30, or perhaps a little later, she went

back to the booth and discovered the stabbing. She had never seen the man before either.

“Can you describe the man?” I asked.

“He was sitting down and there isn’t much light in the booth so I didn’t see him real well. It seems to me, though, that he

was short and kind of skinny. He was wearing a baseball cap so I didn’t see his hair. He was white and didn’t have a beard

or mustache. That’s all I can remember.”

“That’s a beginning. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I doubt it.”

I thanked Sarah for her help and went looking for Galen; I found him inter- viewing the male patron who had seen the man

in the booth. The description Galen was given tallied with what Sarah had told me, except the patron had been too far from

the booth to tell if the man had any facial hair.

We next talked to Sergeant Canville, head of the crime investigation team that was busy securing whatever evidence

they could from the booth. They had taken samples of the blood from the table and had vacuumed the cushions and the floor

area beneath the booth. All of the items secured from these sources would be put through vigorous tests at the crime lab.

Joe Canville, a veteran approaching retirement was recognized nationally as an expert on the scene investigator when it

came to finding and evaluating evidence.

“No ID,” he informed us. “The perp must have taken her purse with him. Also, there’s no sign of the weapon, but Doc

Morrissey thinks it was a long, stiletto type knife. She was stabbed once, in the throat, and probably died in silence, quietly.

He also took his beer glass with him.”

After having this confirmed by Doc Morrissey Galen and I left; Galen to return to his family and me to my singles

apartment. By the time I got to bed it was almost 3 A.M.

A thorough search of the bar’s neighborhood was made during the hours from 3 to 6 A.M., hoping to turn up the victim’s

purse or the missing beer glass. All to no avail, no sign of either item turned up. It was like looking for the proverbial needle

in a haystack.

Following a curtailed sleep we reported to headquarters at 10 o’clock to see if the lab had come up with anything. We

were told it was too soon; perhaps by Sunday they would have some usable results. When we left at noon we had no

additional information to work with.

I went back to my apartment planning for an afternoon nap but couldn’t put my mind to rest. I spent most of the afternoon

watching college basketball on TV.

* * *

That evening, when I arrived at Alex’s apartment, she had the table set in a very romantic setting, candles on the table

and soft music playing on the stereo. Alex was wearing a sexy dress that emphasized her superb figure. I couldn't take my

eyes off her. When she realized this she took me by the hand and led me to the table.

“Let’s eat,” she said, in a quavering voice. “Romance later.”

Before I sat down I took her in my arms and kissed her, first on her lips and then in the hollow at the top of her cleavage.

Dinner was excellent. Alex served a special recipe that was accompanied a good ice cold wine. In spite of my desire to

finish eating quickly and go on to more important things, I found I was starved and cleaned my plate completely. Alex only

picked at her food so perhaps she had her mind on something else also. Each time I looked in her eyes she blushed.

When Alex asked me if I was ready for dessert I didn’t answer her immediately. I got up from my chair, crossed over to

where she was sitting and again kissed her twice, on the lips and at the top of her cleavage. “You know what I want for

dessert,” I said.

Alex wrapped her arms around me, then took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom. By then I was breathing hard

and ready for her. We didn’t rush it; Alex unbuttoned the rest of her dress and let it slide slowly down her body, moved close

to me and undressed me, very slowly. Alex lay in my arms while I ran my hands all over her fabulous body. After a long

period of fondling each other Alex rolled onto her back, pulled me on top of her and guided me in.

Alex fell asleep in my arms and I lay there fro a long time still in a state of rapture from the love making. Finally I looked at

my watch and decided it was time I left. I sat on the edge of the bed and Alex rolled toward me, wrapped her arms around

me and whispered throatily, “I want you to stay, can you?”

My answer was a breathless, “Yes” as I lay down next to her again and took her in my arms. More fondling and stroking

followed and then lovemaking even more passionate than the first time. By then we were both depleted and fell asleep. The

next thing I knew it was morning and I awoke to the smell of fresh coffee.

* * *

Late in the morning I called the crime lab to inquire about progress being made in the stabbing and was told only a

skeleton crew was working and there wouldn’t be any results until Monday at the earliest. There was not much I could do until

I had the lab results so I decided to take the day off and, if she wanted, spend the day with Alex.

Alex was delighted at the news so much so that she planted another kiss on my lips. At this I pulled her onto my lap so I

could return the kiss properly. I realized then we had reached a new level in our relationship.

I pulled her close and in a shaky voice said, “I want you to know that last night wss not just a one night stand for me. I can

get very serious over you, but I don’t want to be pushy about it.”

Alex kissed me again and replied, “I know; I find myself in the same state. Let’s roll with it and see what happens.”

That afternoon, holding hands all the way, we went for a long walk in the hills and talked about ourselves. I knew, whose

full name is Alexandra Potovkin, was of Russian descent. She had been married briefly and lived in Sacramento before the

marriage broke up. After the divorce she resumed her maiden name and moved to Riverton, about two and a half years ago.

Since then she had been man shy until she met me.

Besides nursing, which she loved, she liked dancing, jazz, books and sports, more or less in that order. Surprisingly,

those were also my favorite activities. I informed Alex I had never been married but had had two serious commitments, one

in which an engagement lasted three months before we both agreed it was a mistake and parted amicably.

I also informed her I was still working on my education and had set a goal for myself of a degree some time in the near

future; possibly in criminal investigation techniques. I knew Joe Canville was retiring soon and I thought of his job as a fine

one to aspire to.

* * *

Monday brought no new developments. The lab finished processing and filing the items obtained from the booth; a few

hairs, threads from two different fabrics and other flotsam that might have been in the crevices around the cushions for years.

Doc Morrissey’s crew finished the autopsy by early afternoon. The stab wound was the only intrusion into the body,

although there were bruises around her wrists as if the assailant had been trying to hold her hands to keep her from attacking

him. There were also traces of narcotic, probably heroin, in the blood but the few needle marks were old ones as if she had,

at one time, been a user but had quit, or tried to. This might or might not be a clue to the motive for the murder. Was she a

person who was trying to escape the clutches of a dealer? The autopsy also showed semen in her vagina, indicating recent

sexual activity, perhaps only a few hours before she was murdered. A DNA study was being made of the semen.

As of Monday afternoon no identification of the body had been made. Touched up photos of the victim’s face were

circulated in different neighborhoods and given to local newspapers and TV stations. On a hunch, Galen and I drove through

the streets near the bar looking for a vehicle left unattended for several days. We were quickly discouraged by the number of

heaps parked at the curb throughout the area, some of them looked as if they had been there for months.

For the next two days we kept busy with routine police business, a liquor store robbery, a runaway child, an accident

involving a hit and run driver. On Thursday we got a tentative identification of the victim with a phone call from a Mrs.

Jeannette Dunston in Sacramento. She informed us the picture looked like her daughter whom she hadn’t seen for almost a

year. She agreed to come to Riverton to view the body Friday morning.

Before meeting with Mrs. Dunston we received a lab report informing us that the semen found in the victim’s vagina had

come from at least two different males. Another question arose; was she a prostitute, or just easy prey to all the male wolves

she met?

Mrs. Dunston was an attractive woman in her late forties. From the looks of her clothes and her haughty bearing, she

appeared to be from one of the upper crust families in Sacramento. At the morgue she immediately identified the young

woman as her daughter. The only perceptible sign of grief she showed was a slight tremor in her voice; however, she might

have been all shaken up inside but was one who kept a stiff upper lip at all costs.

“That’s my daughter, Karen; my only child I should add. She left home last June, after graduating from high school. My

husband and I assumed she was moving in with a friend but as she didn’t contact us we didn’t know where she went.”

“Had she been having any problems, either at home or school or elsewhere?” I asked.

“She was a very headstrong girl and, ever since she entered her teens, was troublesome and defiant. She did whatever

she wanted, when she wanted.”

“Do you know if she was sexually active?”

“She never told me so, but I’m sure she was, along with a number of other vices. I know she smoked marijuana, I could

smell it on her and I’m sure she tried the hard stuff; crack, is that what you call it?”

At this point I interrupted, realizing that she had many unhappy memories to unburden of, most of which would not help

our investigation. “Let me get a woman police officer to talk with you further about Karen. She is excellent in the counseling

field and probably will understand the situation better than my partner or I will.” I called the dispatcher and asked her to locate

Sergeant Levine, whom most of us called Mother Machree, and have her meet us at headquarters.

Sergeant was a well liked and well respected motherly type in her late fifties who had great success talking to people

with emotional problems and always seemed to come up with information others failed to get.

We met her at headquarters, explained who Mrs. Dunston was, and left the two to talk while we picked up other threads

that needed tending to. Before leaving her with Sergeant Levine I asked Mrs. Dunston for a recent photo of Karen. She had

a wallet size that she gave me.

* * *

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