The Friday Night Club

Knowing the victim’s name provided a starting point to obtaining other information. Sergeant Levine, once she had

obtained as much information as she could from Mrs. Dunston, would follow up on the Sacramento end. Galen and I, mean-

while, would make inquiries in Riverton. A check with DMV gave us the information that a Karen Dunston had a five year old

Honda Civic registered in her name and had a street address in Riverton. Unfortunately, the rooming house in the down-town

area, was no longer current. Karen had moved from there two months previously leaving no forwarding address.

Karen had lived at the rooming house only three months and, from what the manager recalled, had no visitors and was

gone all day and most evenings. Beyond that she didn’t remember anything about Karen.

While we were checking out that defunct address one of our cruisers located Karen’s Honda parked three blocks from

the bar where she was murdered. A crew from the crime lab was dispatched to check it out; it would then be impounded

and moved to the police lot.

We drove to the area where Karen’s car had been found and began canvassing the neighborhood, showing her photo to

employees at commercial establishments. At a drug store we had our first bit of luck; a woman pharmacist said she thought

she had filled a prescription for Karen a week or so ago. Her records gave us a more recent address and also the name of

the dentist who had written the prescription.

Dr. Kendall had a small, one member office several blocks from the pharmacy. A short, bald man, he answered our

questions readily. Karen had been his patient for about four months; he had filled a large cavity the week before and the

prescription was for s pain killer. He had no knowledge of her personal life and no information as to who recommended him.

The address he had was the same as the one Karen had given to the pharmacy.

After a late lunch stop, by then it was almost 2 P.M., we drove to the new address we had for Karen. It was another

rooming house, one even seedier than the first one we checked. The manager, Mrs. Lopez, a gray-haired Hispanic woman

in her sixties, told us Karen had lived there for almost two months. Again, she never had visitors and was away from home all

day and most evenings. “She and the girl who lived in room 12 were friendly,” she informed us.

The ‘girl in room 12’ was not home but usually returned about 6 o’clock and stayed home most evenings. Her name, we

were told was Antonia Pivetta.

By that time it was after 3; we decided to call it a day. I left my card with Mrs. Lopez with the request that she ask Antonia

to call headquarters so we could talk with her about Karen.

* * *

I had a date with Alex for that Friday night that I intended to keep come hell or high water. A month ago I had obtained

tickets for a local performance of CAMELOT. Our plans were to have dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, take in the

show, then go dancing at a local gin mill that feature a jazz trio on Friday evenings. Following this I had high hopes of another

night like the previous Saturday and the lovemaking we had shared.

It was not to be. We made it through dinner and the show and had just arrived at the jazz joint when my cell phone

buzzed. It was another stabbing in a bar, another young woman. I called Galen, took Alex home with all kinds of apologies

and headed for the bar. Again, Alex invited me to dinner for Saturday evening; an invitation I quickly accepted.

* * *

The bar was in a different part of town than the one a week earlier; the locale was different but the neighborhood much

the same. The conditions were not quite squalid, but approaching it. The victim was sprawled in a booth with her head on

the table, again in a pool of blood. This time there was no waitress, it was the bar-tender who had discovered the body. He

had served a couple in the booth shortly before 10;30 and found the body when he returned to the booth about 20 minutes

later. He immediately dialed 911 and reported his find.

The first thing we noticed when we arrived was the absence of patrons; no one was there but the bartender, a big, florid

man in his late sixties. He introduced him-self as Jack Murphy.

“I own the joint, have for more than twenty years,” he said, “after I retired from the fire department.”

“Tell us what you saw, as well as you can remember it,” I told him. “Also, about the patrons who were here and might be

witnesses.”

At this time Doc Morrissey arrived, as did the crime investigation team. I left the bartender to Galen while I conversed

briefly with Doc Morrissey and Sergeant Canville.

“Why the hell do you have to mess up every Friday night with a murder?” Doc Morrissey asked as Joe Canville nodded

sagely. Then the good doctor added, “It’s the same type wound as last week, probably a stiletto again.”

“To answer your question, I’ll ask the perp when I meet him,” was my response. “I’m interested in both the similarities

and the differences between last week’s case and this on. If we can tie the two together it might help; or perhaps not.”

Jack Murphy had given Galen a statement which agreed with his earlier statement to the dispatcher on 911. He also

gave Galen a list of the names of seven persons he recalled were there when the body was discovered, five men and two

women. One person was there whose name he didn’t know but whom he thought was a guest of one of the men. As was the

case the previous week, he couldn’t describe the man in the booth and had doubts about recognizing him if he saw him

again.

“He was young, white, and wore a baseball cap,” he added for my edification.

“Beard or mustache?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“What color was the baseball cap?”

“Black or dark blue,” I think. And see how many of

“Let me see if I have this right,” I interposed. “He was a young, short, white man wearing a dark blue or black baseball

cap. He probably did not have any facial hair. Is that a fair description of him?”

“I think so,” Murphy answered. Then, a peculiar look passed over his face. “Wait a minute, did you say short?”

When I nodded Murphy continued, “He definitely wasn’t short; he was young, in his early twenties, and white and he was

wearing a dark baseball cap. But, he was tall, more than six feet I would guess from seeing him sitting down, about a foot

taller than the girl.”

At this a puzzled look must have passed over my face as Galen reached out to me and asked, “What’s the problem,

Brad?”

“Nothing that can’t wait, but let’s finish up here and see how many of Jack’s patrons are still up.”

One other piece of information was added to our pool when Jack Murphy informed us the man ordered a beer and the

woman a white wine. A striking coincidence? I didn’t think so. To add to that, Sergeant Canville informed us the perp also

took his beer glass with him, and the woman’s purse was missing. More coincidences?

We left our vehicles parked near the bar as the addresses Jack gave us of his evening’s patrons were all within walking

distance. He also gave us addresses of two other neighborhood bars, in the event some of the patrons didn’t go straight

home.

As we were walking to the closest address I asked Galen to get out his notes from the previous week’s stabbing and

read the description the waitress, Sarah Gooding, had given of the young man. Galen read it as I remembered it; the man

was young, white and short.

The first person we approached was a woman who lived les than a block from the bar. Gertrude Feinster was a widow

who lived alone on the second floor of an old apartment building. Apparently, she had not yet gone to bed; she was still fully

dressed when she answered our knock and we identified ourselves.

The room she led us to was a shambles. Old magazines and newspapers were stacked in every conceivable open

space, on top of chairs, behind the TV, everywhere. She pushed some of them aside so we would have a place to sit.

“Ms Feinster,” I began, “we are investigating the incident at Murphy’s bar and we understand you were there at the time it

happened.”

“I was there but I didn’t see nothing.”

“Perhaps you saw something you’re not immediately aware of. If we could have just a few minutes of your time it could

be a big help to our investigation.”

“I’ll do all I can to help; I don’t want no man going around stabbing women in bars.”

“Oh, you did know the woman was stabbed.”

“I heard Jack say her neck was cut and there was blood all over the table.”

“You didn’t see it happen, then?”

“No, I was at the other end of the bar. But I heard Jack yell and I made up my mind to get the hell out of there.”

“Did you, at any time, see the couple sitting in the booth?”

“No.”

We thanked her for her time and left for our next stop. It was already 2 A.M.; this could last all night.

The next two addresses we were given both drew blanks. No one answered to either a knock or a persistent finger on

the doorbell. We decided to try one more and then call it a night.

Jackson Woodbury was a tall, slender black man in his early seventies. He informed us he had just gone to bed when we

arrived at his door. “I tried all the news stations on TV and none of them had any news about the girl being murdered at

Murphy’s. She is dead, isn’t she? I guessed that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we’re trying to talk to as many people as we can who were there when it happened, while it’s still

fresh on their mind.”

“It’s still fresh on my mind.”

“Tell us exactly what you saw.”

“I didn’t see nothin’, really. That old blabbermouth, Gertrude, was on her high horse again, telling us how bad the

government is, all the politicians are crooks and all cops on the take. When she’s talkin’ no one else has a chance to say

anything.”

“Were you sitting near Ms Feinster?”

“Right next to her.”

“Then you didn’t see either the young man or the woman?”

“Didn’t even know they were there until Jack yelled, then grabbed the phone and called 911. Then, everyone skedaddled

and gave that booth a wide berth.”

When we left Woodbury’s it was 3:30, time to call it a night. After agreeing to meet at headquarters at 9 A.M. we went

our separate ways.

* * *

We got some help from headquarters in the morning; an extra detective was assigned to our team to help us with the

many contacts we needed to make. Jason LaFleur was a veteran detective I had worked with before on homicides. Jason

was considered a plodder by those who knew him; not very imaginative but a skilled interviewer. One who usually obtained

information if there was any to obtain. We were glad to have him on board.

The three of us sat down and went over all the known facts of the stabbings, and the perceived ones. Both the victims

were young, attractive white females. The first victim, Karen Dunston, was a blonde; the second, as yet unidentified, a

brunette. Whether the difference in hair color was important we didn’t know. Karen had been a narcotics user in the past

and also was sexually active. We had no information of that sort, as yet, on the second victim. Both were stabbed in the

neck by a sharp, stiletto type knife.

The perpetrator was another story. He was young, white, skinny, and either short or tall, depending on whose

assessment was correct, Sarah Gooding’s or Jack Murphy’s. He wore a baseball cap each time, that was definite.

We decided to split up; Galen and Jason would seek out the rest of the patrons from Murphy’s bar and I would re-

interview Sarah Gooding and perhaps also the male patron who had a look at the first perp. Sarah was at home doing a

laundry when I arrived shortly after 11. I asked her to again describe the man in the booth. Her answer stayed the same; he

was young, white, short, clean shaven, and wearing a baseball cap.

The male bar patron, Don Stinetz, couldn’t be sure about the height. “I was too far from the booth to tell how tall he was.”

Neither Galen nor Jason came up with any new information from the people they interviewed. The crime lab had not

completed its work and, as was the case the previous week, would not complete it until Monday. We called it a day at 3

o’clock; I went home and took a much needed nap.

* * *

Alex had dinner ready for me when I arrived at 7 o’clock. When she met me at the door my first look at her took my

breath away. She was dressed in a clinging, one piece body suit that molded to her figure perfectly. She noticed my eyes

bulging and said, “Do you like it? I bought it for you.”

My answer was very throaty, “I love it; but I don’t think it will fit me the way it fits you.”

“Silly, that’s not what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean. Do you know what you’re doing to me?” I replied and reached out for her only to have her

evade me.

“Let’s eat,” she said in a husky voice and led me to the table.

Dinner was again delicious, a savory pasta served with salad and an ice cold wine. When we had both finished eating

Alex asked me to clear the table while she changed into ‘something comfortable.’

When I entered the bedroom Alex was lying on the bed completely naked, the body suit thrown over the back of a chair. I

was speechless; I tried to say something and stammered as my eyes took in that vision of feminine perfection.

“What’s taking you so long to undress?” she asked, at the same time reaching for me and beginning to undress me,

slowly and seductively. She then pulled me onto the bed for another adventure in the art of making love.

We lay in bed holding each other close while our heartbeat and breathing returned to normal. It took more than that time

for me to get up the courage to say what was in my heart. When I did it was with a quavering voice.

“Alexandra Potovkin,” I began, “I love you with all my heart and soul. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you

marry me?”

Alex looked into my eyes and I could see tears forming in hers. “Brad, this is so sudden; I don’t know how to answer you.”

After a pause she continued, “I think my answer is let’s wait a while before I say yes. I’m sure it will be yes, but not now. I

have to be sure it’s love and not just passion. She then started to cry so that I had to reach for a box of tissues.

Alex then surprised me. “Why don’t you move in with me and we can have a trial period. Waiting an entire week between

dates is too long for me. And, from what I’ve seen, it’s too long for you also.”

I was so surprised I couldn’t find my tongue for a minute or two. “I wanted to suggest that,” I finally answered, “but I was

afraid you’d say no. I agree, once a week is not often enough but our schedules make more frequent dating impossible. If

we lived together, though, we would be with each other for a part of each day and night and might find time for more of that

love making we both like.”

“Okay, when?”

“Is this weekend too soon? I’ve signed a lease on my apartment but I think I can sub-lease it. I can get some of my things

tomorrow and the rest in dribbles as I travel back and forth. Okay?”

“Okay, now let’s go back to bed.”

* * *

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