Chapter 4
After the funeral of John Jenkins, which Baker, Poncherello, Baricza, Fritz, Grossman and Getraer had to attend, things began to be a little tougher at Central. Although every officer still attended to their everyday job, every officer, including Getraer, began to fear for his and her life. This evil was still out there, lurking about California, leaving so many questions unanswered. One week after Jenkins' death, Getraer had received more evidence from LAPD concerning O'Brien's earlier death. "The prints of the rag of chloroform used were, in fact, those of vintage 1950's women's leather gloves designed by Givenchy," he explained at briefing. "On the Honda bike were found traces of Old Spice, on the handlebars. O'Brien's radio call said the biker was male, caucasian, about 25 years old. For some odd reason, he had a full scarf covering his hair, a lame attempt, obviously, to prevent hair samples from being taken."
"We also have reason to believe he may be the mysterious 'Ghoul'," Getraer continued, "according to some evidence Officer Baricza found in his locker a week ago, moments before Jenkins died after giving it to him. 'Ghoul' is also, allegedly, a 25 year old caucasian male. His intent--as well as that of his possible accomplices, incluidng one I'll mention in a second--is to kill California Highway Patrol Officers only, no one else. The particular accomplice I want to mention is somebody known to us only by the initials of F.F. One or more of these accomplices has a taste for Korbel Extra Dry Champagne as well as Shiraz from Beringer, and maybe strawberries. Whoever killed O'Brien and Richardson also has a taste for Old Spice. Unfortunately, nothing more can be said at the moment, but at the very least, we've got a few answers to some of our great multitude of questions. I do realize many of you, as well as all CHP Officers, are greatly fearing for your lives. What I can tell you is, stay brave in heart and stay strong. The long arm of the law is just one thing that these criminals will never elude. We'll find them. I promise."
"Boy, whoever's doing this is doing a really lame job of covering up their tracks," said Ponch as he and Jon cruised the San Diego freeway, southbound, on patrol. "Champagne, Shiraz wine, Old Spice, chloroform, strawberries..."
"Yeah," replied Jon, "I mean, what did the killer or killers do, toast Richardson's death before they shot him? Or maybe after they did? I mean, how sick can you get?"
"One of the killers is obviously a woman," said Ponch. "Givenchy gloves and all..."
"Not neccessarily," replied Jon. "Just someone covering their tracks, or trying to, anyhow."
"Where, exactly, was O'Brien taken when they pounded her to death, that's what I want to know," said Ponch.
"And how did they chloroform Richardson with no evidence of a struggle, like he never left a trace of himself, or even any early morning breakfast behind? You know, I talked to an Officer Chisholm from Richardson's division, when I met him at the Burger House you and I ate at last Friday..."
"Huh?"
"While you were in the bathroom, you know, doing your hair and all," said Jon. "He said Richardson was allergic to strawberries..."
"Man, this is getting wierder and wierder," said Ponch. "The killers eating strawberries, drinking wine and champagne at the death of an officer. Obviously they've really got this thing against the CHP. But why?"
Meanwhile, Grossman was patrolling the Ventura Freeway, traveling north on his own motorcycle. He decided to stop for gas at a Chevron station. When he went in to pay for his gasoline, when he came out again, he found a note attached to his motor, Scotch taped on one of his saddlebags. Puzzled, he unfolded the typing paper, where a message was once again typed about the whole issue at hand:
F.F. knows Baker and Poncherello personally.
Officer Melanie Bunton of CHP Central has died. She chased F.F. to West Ventura Mall. Body can be found somewhere by May Company.
More than one killer involved. I've never killed any officer yet, but I'm about to die.
Sorry for all the trouble this has caused.
He looked to see two black high heels by his feet. He picked them up, too puzzled to ask why...
In the distance, he saw a woman hurrying down the street in a tiny black dress with elbow-length black gloves, her bright blond hair pinned up in a glamorous upsweep. She looked flustered...
"Hey!" he called out.
He sped after her. She ran down the street, then turned down to an alley behind a strip mall practically a hop, skip and jump away, the only way to, at least, keep up the chase until she could lose him. She ran behind an ice cream parlor, surrounded by many crates. She disappeared behind them. Grossman dismounted, took out the high heels from his saddlebag, and hurried after her. He cornered her quickly amongst the crates. "Hold it right there!" he snapped. She did so with a frightened look. He playfully waved the heels at her. "Lose something?"
Suddenly, a puff of air from the right side, from amongst the stack of crates there, made her react. She held her neck at the right side as a tiny dart penetrated, then keeled over. Grossman caught her as she fell. She reached out to him and spoke only a few words before she died.
F...F's... father... was..a CHP...molest...gang...1955...hates...chippies...
"What? What? What does that mean? No! No. Don't--!"
But it was too late.
He noticed that the woman's dress and shoes, later, were by Givenchy...
Bunton's body was later found in the alley behind the May Company at West Ventura Mall. No weapon could be found, yet according to LAPD detectives, and what they told Grossman, it seemed a knife had somehow been plunged, literally, right into her heart.