Chapter 4

Day 4 (11 October 2018) Notes for Taxi Driver Task Force initiated on 8 October 2018

(Detective Trish Cavanaugh Badge 3446 SFPD)

It turned out that the guy we were “interviewing” was a Chinese exchange student living above a fucking Chinese Restaurant right in the middle of Chinatown where the tourists all made a checkmark on their schedules for “seeing the sights of the city” with devoted sense of keeping to the tourist script no matter what they really wanted to do down deep inside. I had done that tourist bit in other places and knew the role was a pain in the ass but usually you didn’t want to upset the others in your party and pretended to be having a good time when the truth was it was so boring that it would drive the Pope to drink before five o’clock in the Vatican City.

The fucking prick Kominski actually patted me on my ass when I got into the squad car and I was getting ready to put on my brass knuckles because he was a big guy even though age and booze had slowed him down to a slow stumble like some elephant heading to the boneyard to add to the heap of ivory that would make some ass-hole rich someday just picking it up off the rain-drenched ground.

Then I saw the smile on his ugly mug and I knew he was just fooling around and didn’t have any designs on nailing my pussy to his trophy wall for silly female detective second class bimbos with slutty attitudes and dirty comments for almost every situation that seemed right for nasty talk.

I figured he was just locked into the whole retirement thing and he was probably doing socialite humping duty every night up there on Nob Hill with the sweet-scented pussies that didn’t usually mingle with the common folk. That is, unless they were tall, ugly and had a name like Kominski and had a dick that matched their ugly face only a lot bigger like almost every Polack I had ever seen “au natural”.

The Chinese guy was queer as a three dollar bill and he shoved it in your face like he wanted to see if you were a homophobe like all cops were reputed to be unless they happened to be in that community as well.

“Come on in, darlings, my name is Sing Low, but I assure you I can hit a high note when the time is right for making a lot of noise to keep my partner interested.”

Poor Kominski seemed downright embarrassed and I knew he was not meant to the be the lead interrogator in this alleged “interview” that we needed for some background data on the dump site even if it was only our secondary crime scene and not the all-important primary one where the victim had actually been raped and murdered. I asked Kominski,

“Can you check on our ETA for the next interview, Detective Kominski? The details are on the laptop down in the squad car. Please confirm that our next interviewee is ready on schedule.”

Kominski almost ran out of the studio apartment with the nice skylight that threw some early morning light down on the nude photos of mostly men on the original brick walls in the building that looked like it was around during the historic fire that had almost destroyed the entire neighborhood.

Between the fires and the earthquakes, this part of the city had seen its share of an angry Mother Nature and hopefully she would be quiet for some time into the future and not start any funny business while they were in the middle of an investigation that needed to get resolved as quickly as possible to stop the carnage of pretty young things getting snuffed out in the prime of their nubile young lives.

I thought of my own teenaged daughter Diane and was a bit mollified at the sense that the odds were in her favor because the Taxi Driver killer was more interested in young females in their mid to late twenties with large breast development and plump round asses to complete the picture for his evening’s entertainment. Fortunately, she didn’t fill the bill in any of those categories and in my book that was a good thing because it allowed me to function in my police woman role without the constant fear that she was in danger all the time. Of course, there were a lot more dangers in the big city like some poor young thing just walking with her father and getting gunned down by some illegal alien with a gun that he had allegedly swiped from some Fed’s car parked right next to Fisherman’s Wharf with supposed unlocked doors and with stuff like guns and ammo and laptops with confidential information on them. It sounded so ridiculous that even I thought it was a cover story for some other agenda too mysterious for me to decipher on a day when all my concentration was focused on the Taxi Driver killer like a spot light shining in the dark of a moonless night.