Chapter Eight
Until two days ago, Jack Blackburn had never had a high point in his life.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Jack just wasn’t good at anything.
He did his homework and studied for tests in school, but Jack wasn’t very bright, so his best efforts resulted in Cs and Ds.
He was too short for basketball and too skinny for football.
His final effort to get on a sports team flamed out when the bowling team coach put an arm across his shoulders and, apologetically, told Jack that they only had room on the team for ten men and, well, he was sorry, but …
After high school, Jack worked at odd jobs, like pizza delivery and stock boy, but his inability to perform adequately at even these jobs usually led to his being fired. Then Jack took a shot at being a criminal and failed miserably.
Jack had a few friends from high school, and they were also losers in the game of life.
One of them talked Jack into robbing a pharmacy so they could sell the drugs they looted.
This turned into one of the most incompetent robberies in history.
Weeks before the heist, the occupants of the building where the ground-floor pharmacy was located began calling the police to tell them that they thought that two men were casing the place.
The pharmacy’s large windows faced the street, its lights remained on all night, and it had a silent alarm.
Moments after Jack and his friend broke in, police cars blocked the exits.
Jack tried to flee, but he was caught two steps from the door.
Although the DA didn’t need it for a conviction, Jack shamefacedly confessed his misdeed.
The judge took into account Jack’s genuine remorse and the fact that this was his only brush with the law and gave him a sentence of probation with a condition that he serve two months in the county jail.
And that’s where he met Billy, who loaned Jack the car!
Unfortunately, this high point in Jack’s life didn’t last long.
Driving the Jag was an out-of-body experience like being on an LSD trip or smoking really good weed, and Jack was so enraptured that it took him a while to realize that the siren he was hearing and the flashing lights he was seeing in his rearview mirror were aimed at him.
Jack parked on the shoulder. Moments later, one policeman was at the driver’s window and one was looking at him through the window on the passenger’s side.
“Sir, please get your license and registration. Then step out of the car and keep your hands where we can see them,” ordered the officer who was staring at Jack menacingly through the driver’s-side window and whose name tag identified him as Brady McDowell.
Jack took the registration out of the glove box and his license out of his wallet.
Before he opened the driver’s door, he noticed that the officer had his hand on the butt of his gun.
The other policeman’s name tag identified him as Randy Wheeler.
He walked around the front of the Jag and put his hand on his weapon.
“What’s the trouble, Officer McDowell?” Jack asked as soon as he was outside the car.
“Let’s see your license and the registration.”
Jack handed them over.
“Nice wheels,” McDowell said.
Jack couldn’t help smiling. “This car is amazing.”
“Any idea what it costs?”
“I looked it up online. It sells new for a little more than one hundred and twenty thousand.”
McDowell got Jack’s name from his license.
“So, Jack … Do you mind if I call you Jack?”
“Not at all.”
“So, Jack, how are you employed?”
“I’m between jobs right now.”
“Are you a trust fund baby?”
“I wish.”
“Want to tell us how you can afford the Jag?”
“Oh, it’s not mine.”
“We know that. Want to know how? The owner reported it stolen.”
“It’s not stolen,” Jack said. “Billy said I could drive it.”
“I’ve got a flash for you. This isn’t Billy’s car. It’s Terrance Cogen’s, just like it says on the registration, so how did this Billy get it?”
“Billy said he’s the chauffeur for the rich guy who owns it. I guess that’s Mr. Cogen.”
“Has Billy got a last name?”
“Of course, but I can’t remember it.”
“Why didn’t you just return the car to the owner?”
“Uh, I, uh, I didn’t know where he lived. I’ve been driving around Portland trying to find Billy so I could give the car back to him.”
“When you couldn’t find Billy, why didn’t you drive to Mr. Cogen’s house? The address is clearly printed on the registration papers.”
“Um, I guess I didn’t think of that. But I swear I didn’t steal the car.”
“We believe you, Jack,” McDowell said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “and we’re going to help you out by going to Mr. Cogen’s house. I’m sure Billy will clear this up.”
“Great!” Jack said as he started to get back in the Jag.
“Sorry, Jack. My partner is going to drive the Jag, and you’re going to ride in the back seat of our car.”
Jack knew that the back seat of a police car was where prisoners rode, but he wasn’t worried, because he knew that Billy would tell the officers that he had loaned Jack the car and everything would end up just fine.
They arrived at Terrance Cogen’s estate a little after sunset.
It was located behind a stone wall and up a winding drive in Dunthorpe, one of Portland’s priciest neighborhoods.
Officer McDowell drove up to the wall and was surprised to see that the wrought iron gate that was supposed to block the driveway was wide open.
When McDowell reached the end of the drive, he didn’t see any lights on in the three-story mansion. McDowell parked the police car in front of a portico that covered the front entrance. His partner parked the Jag behind him.
“Does something seem off?” McDowell asked Wheeler when they were both out of their cars.
“You mean, no people.”
“Yeah. A place this big, you’d think there would be someone around and lights on in the house. And why was the gate open?”
“Did you call Cogen while we were on the way?”
“Yeah. I told headquarters that we had the Jag and I got the number, but the call went to voicemail.”
McDowell grew even more suspicious when he rang the doorbell and no one answered.
“Cogen’s got to have help with a place this big, so where are they?” he asked as he rang the doorbell again. When there was no answer, he tried the handle. The door opened.
It was very dark in the house, and McDowell couldn’t hear any sound.
But he did smell a foul odor. McDowell unholstered his gun, felt along the wall, and flipped on a switch.
Light from a crystal chandelier flooded the entryway, and the officers found themselves face-to-face with a snarling African lion, its claws extended and its jaws agape, displaying razor-sharp teeth.
The officers screamed and leaped back. Only their training prevented them from emptying their weapons into the taxidermied beast.
“Jesus Christ!” McDowell managed when he caught his breath. His partner was leaning forward, his hands on his knees.
McDowell looked around the massive entryway and down the halls that led off of it. Stuffed animal heads could be seen in all directions.
“Motherfucker,” McDowell’s partner cursed.
The officers regained their composure.
“I’m never going to the zoo again,” McDowell said.
“Amen,” Wheeler agreed. Then he yelled, “Police! Anyone home?”
When no one answered, the officers walked down a hall where the foul odor was strongest and into the first room on their right.
McDowell felt for a light switch, flipped it on, and found himself in a massive living room.
Crossed African spears hung on one wall.
Frightening masks from countries around the globe were arrayed on some of the other walls above cabinets filled with artifacts of Haitian voodoo and African juju.
Alongside the masks, and completely out of place, was a seascape by Turner and a Cézanne, and mixed with the African religious artifacts were a Giacometti sculpture, a marble replica of Rodin’s The Kiss, a modern marble sculpture that resembled a Henry Moore, and several other stone and ceramic sculptures.
But the main attractions in the room were a monstrous polar bear that stood on its hind legs, claws raised, and the corpse that sprawled at its feet in a pool of blood.
“Whoa,” McDowell managed.
The dead man was grossly overweight and lay on his stomach. His head was turned so that McDowell couldn’t see his features, but he could see the back of his head, which was covered with dried blood. Lying next to the corpse was a marble statue covered in blood and the victim’s brains.
McDowell knew that there was a 99 percent possibility that the man was dead, but he checked for a pulse anyway. Then he backed out of the room.
“Let’s get out of here so we don’t contaminate the scene,” McDowell said.
When they were outside, McDowell leaned into his car.
“What’s happening?” Jack asked.
McDowell didn’t answer him. He got on the car radio and told the dispatcher to get the medical examiner and homicide detectives to the house. When he ended his call, he walked toward the Jaguar. His partner met him halfway. He was carrying a wallet in a plastic evidence bag.
“I found this in the glove compartment buried under some stuff. It’s empty, except for one credit card belonging to Terrance Cogen. It also has a stain that looks like blood.”
McDowell walked back to the police car and got in the front seat so he was facing Jack Blackburn.
“Mr. Blackburn, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Terrance Cogen.”