Back Bay Murder

By Ernest Norsworthy
(Using the pseudonym “Ernie Myzell”)

Chapter 1

The half dozen sea gulls perched on the gently drifting object in the bay were completely oblivious that the objects they were pecking at were on a body. The Back Bay at fabulous Newport Beach, California, with some of the most desirable real estate in Southern California, was unaccustomed to modern day scandal. Sure, a floating body was unusual but not unheard of in the history of the Bay. ‘Way back in the thirties before it was even called “Back Bay”, many bodies were said to have floated down to the harbor, some even making it to the ocean.

Still, it was an unsettling sight. After all, Newport Beach was the crown jewel among Southern California’s ports. From San Diego on the south to Long Beach harbor on the north at Los Angeles, the two major commercial harbors, Newport Beach was the port of call for yachts, sailboats, and the home of gentlemen fishers with means. The older sections of Newport Beach - Balboa Island, the small “walking" island and the peninsula – have long since been built out with every kind of house, cottage or other structure which faces the water or at least for some kind of view of it. Not much thought was given to the automobile or for those commuting to work daily or to the rich and not so rich who ride the same tiny six-car ferry to and from Balboa Island to the peninsula.

The entrance to Newport Beach harbor opens from the ocean south of the city and extends along the peninsula north to Lido. About half way up the harbor the Back Bay begins and winds eastward around for another two miles and past the Castaways cliff north of the Pacific Coast Highway Bridge.

The latest and almost the last areas in Newport Beach to be fully developed are the residential sites on Castaways cliff around the Back Bay. The Castaways Restaurant before being demolished for residences was a famous old prom night get away. Multimillion-dollar homes now perch on Castaways cliff and elbow each other to get the best views of the bay, harbor, and ocean. And they pay dearly for the view. Looking up the bay from the Pacific Coast Highway Bridge, these new homes resemble the ones in New England along the Atlantic coast with their white Cape Cod exteriors but these homes are very much closer together.

Ensconced on the gray and white chert cliff one hundred feet above the bay channel, homes in the gated Castaways community share a panoramic view overlooking a large segment of the 1500 ft. wide bay channel, down to the harbor and the ocean a mile away. Huge eucalyptus trees border the east separating it from an adjoining subdivision below.

Going up the Back Bay from the PCH, the channel twists about 90 degrees right at the cliffs so that the onshore breeze deflects up, over the cliffs, and to the rear of the Castaways homes. Across the channel, hundreds of powerboats are moored extending from the PCH Bridge around the Newport Dunes camping area. Beyond the PCH Bridge toward the ocean, dozens and dozens of sail craft unable to navigate under the bridge are anchored and await good sailing weather.

Large hawks and other birds of prey cruise back and forth along the cliffs, back and forth searching for unwary ground creatures. During much of the day, the updraft is steady and powerful enough to support a parasailer 150 feet above the water. Sitting silently on this cushion of air, the parasailer has an unobstructed view of the winding Back Bay and on out to the ocean and beyond.

From atop Castaways cliff, clearly the police down at the boat ramp at Pacific Coast Highway Bridge were inspecting something resembling a body. Jefferson Greystone, heir to the Greystone chain of upscale and unique specialty stores saw what was happening from his second floor bay window. He quickly phoned the Newport Beach chief of police and the editor of the Daily Pilot newspaper. The Pilot, a Los Angeles Times insert, is the closest thing Newport Beach has to its own daily newspaper.

Chief detective Charles Regulus and the Crime Investigation Unit were told by dispatch that a call had come in from a frantic parent whose son had seen what he thought looked like a body while kayaking in the bay. When Regulus arrived at the PCH bridge boat ramp a few minutes later, the CIU had already fished the body ashore and was about to body bag it.

Time - 9:31 a.m. If lucky, he would be able to approximate the distance a body of its size, weight and bulk might travel as the ocean tides go through their six-hour cycles. And if it were a drowning he might get an idea where and when the body entered the bay. How it got there was only a hunch for now.

Regulus, less than an hour earlier, saw the story in the Monday LA Times about a huge Back Bay party the night before. Automatically, he assumed the body must have something to do with that extravagant blast. A grand celebration it was, the fireworks alone cost $100,000, according to the account in the paper. Maybe enough to take care of one too many "participants”. The big birthday event was celebrating Jan Stafford Craigston's birthday, wife of James Craigston, Southern California car mogul and real estate investor.

Her cold, lifeless body did resemble the pictures in the paper, a helluva before and after Regulus thought. He was good at investigating this kind of case. His homicide record was the best on the California coast. Before he could find the cause of the early death of this woman, he would have to backtrack every inch of the way, making all connections back to the time of death. It may have been an accident but his first assumption was otherwise. He had to move quickly to capture all possible evidence even though it looked like most of it would have already washed out to sea.

She looked fortyish, thought Regulus, and Southern California nouveau riche. Her blank staring eyes, already glazed over from the salty bay water, seemed to be pleading for an answer. It was she, he thought, even to the monogrammed initials and tightly zipped windbreaker and Dockers. "My case," he said under his breath, teeth clenched. Those vacant but demanding eyes, eyes pleading for an answer, the faint enigmatic smile challenging anyone who would look, already haunted him.

This homicide investigation likely would be Regulus' last before retiring with twenty years' service. And it would top his résumé to his new clients as Most Recent Experience in his field of investigations. After retirement, he would simply be known as "Charles Regulus, Private Investigator”.

Jan Stafford Craigston was married to James Craigston, owner of half the new car dealerships in Southern California, called the Southland in California. Hardly like the "Southland" of Tennessee and the rest of the Old South where Jan Stafford had come from.

James Craigston abruptly appeared on the California scene from Tennessee thirty years ago and started selling used cars on television using a very large snake as a prop. "If you can't trust a man with a snake, who can you trust?" was his pitch. And it worked. It worked successfully for Los Angeles car dealer and TV pitchman Cal Worthington for decades using various props from dogs to frogs. "A free snake with every car you buy" Craigston would scream. To no one's surprise, certainly not to Craigston's, he sold a lot of cars but kept most of his snakes. Not a few buyers just came to see the snakes but went home with a car and no snake. Hollywood every day on the tube. Anyway, why not a very large snake for a prop? Craigston's estimated assets now: $10 billion and climbing.

Regulus felt the pager. The message was to call the Chief at once. Newport Beach Chief of Police Ronnie Sequious, a holdover from the last administration, was very nervous about his appointed job. Regulus worked well enough with Sequious as he had with the previous chiefs. But he saw the politics of the chief's job as a battle he wanted no part of. He was not going to call the chief back, not just yet. As usual, Sequious put out panic calls to every unit head whenever something came up that might be too hard for him to handle and that was about everything.

"Who found her?” Regulus said to no one in particular taking in the scene. He expected it was the boy mentioned by dispatch. "A kid, a poor 12 year old kid," said Sgt. Richard Prolo, head of the Crime Investigation Unit. Prolo sounded as if it was his own failure to protect the boy from seeing a corpse. "I have his name and address; I already talked with his mother, they're staying right over there at Newport Dunes”, said Prolo, pointing to the rows of distinctive and expensive motor homes.

Regulus too, would have to talk with the boy and his mother, distasteful though it may be, to get the youngster to recall what he saw and did after his startling discovery this morning.

Prolo routinely handled possible homicides, "accident" or not. On the Newport Beach police force for 15 years, he gradually worked his way up to CIU. Prolo, married with two college age children, had to struggle to keep them in Stanford University and the University of Southern California, private universities. Part of his financial problem was that he visited “Lost Wages”, Nevada too frequently.

"Prolo," said Regulus, "be sure and check out where that harbor sweeper guy dumped anything he may have scooped up since Sunday”. Regulus noticed the tone of Prolo's voice was darkening as he said, "yes, chief detective”, muttering and unable to disguise his reluctance to proceed with the case.

A local resident, Mark Miller, designed and manufactured a unique harbor skimmer and he had sold a number of them along the coast. It was possible his ingenuity might help provide evidence in a crime, if there was one. Regulus had to move fast before evidence literally floated out to sea. The dots were spreading quickly.

From his cubbyhole office - no fashion plate, he never was one for appearances - Regulus began entering searches in his computer. He needed information on Craigston, his wife and his business connections. Regulus wanted to pin this one down soon. All he needed was evidence; the right evidence which experience told him might be hard to get quickly to either exonerate any suspects - or to nail them with it.

His short list included James Craigston whom he had tried to reach earlier at Craigston’s Fashion Island regional office. This time his programmed caller at least got him through to Craigston's personal assistant, Ms Netta Thorsworthy. "Mr. Craigston is not available to talk with you - detective Romulus - but he will return your call as soon as possible, he has your number." Romulus? Thought detective Regulus. She'll think a wolf had raised him when he had finished with her, growling silently. How did she know my private number, he mused. He did know this was just the beginning of another unfriendly relationship.

Regulus, working late, saw the fireworks on the bay the night before and thought it was a little late for a Sunday evening fireworks display. His long training and experience made noting the time automatic - 9:23 p.m. - when the fireworks began, lasting about thirty minutes. Surprisingly, he had heard no police radio reports about it. But now he was mentally tying the fireworks last night to the blast aboard a fishing boat the week before when a passenger blew his hand to bits with "fireworks" which turned out to be blasting caps. The captain of the fishing boat was still trying to explain to the authorities why blasting caps were aboard his boat.

In his years working the coast, Regulus knew where every "fat shop" was within 75 miles. His tall but over nourished rotundity, pressing hard in his seat, verified it. He was killing himself slowly and couldn't criticize much the partying, drinking and drug crowd along the coast. They just killed themselves quicker - by legal and illegal means. A former Black Belt rock, he now was legal slob, almost twice the man he used to be. He was trying to cut out some of the fat. He had to, to stay within the regs. Recently, he had signed up for weight loss training at one of the weight loss centers, the Overweight Body Center Training - OBCT. What an apt name, he thought, spelling out loud the letters O-B-C-T. He had to have a start date. When committed, he would stick with the regimen. Dedication to a task was a Regulus family trait. And it had never failed him.





CHAPTER 2

Regulus had seen drownings before, in the bay, in the harbor and even off shore. The incautious “wedge” victims, those caught in the vicious waves crashing and crushing anything on the huge rocks on the south shore, were the most heart rending. If found at all, these bodies were usually torn to shreds. The drowning victims, mostly, were not spectacularly famous or notorious people even though Newport Beach was well represented by stars, media people and the otherwise rich and nervous. The rich types didn’t turn his head but he kept an eye on the nervous ones. He met many of them over the years and began to understand some of their oddities, their fear of succeeding as well as failing. Many of them were trying to 'find their way to San Jose,' as the song goes. And some would wind up at Venice Beach trying to show their greatest disdain and disrespect for the movie and television industries, and society too, by becoming garish looking freaks cruising up and down the boardwalk.

Some sought out places of 'success' such as Newport Beach and the 'in' feel it provided. Newport Beach also offered them a sense of security, which was not possible, ever, in places like South Central Los Angeles, for example. Occasionally, these pseudo elite could be seen trying to be unobtrusive at Fashion Island, but still receiving the pampered upscale shopping service they thought they deserved. Sauntering through the fabulous open-air mall, taking in the sun, discreetly watching other people and basking in the cool sea breeze was fun enough. Here, at least, they could enjoy 15 minutes of pleasure if not fame, due it or not.

Fashion Island, considered 'downtown' by Newport Beach’s movers and shakers, is by any score, posh Americana. It is a rare example of a city-like enclave built from the ground up that actually works. Fashion Island was birthed in the middle of, at the time, a sparsely developed part of Orange County that was surrounded by small suburban cities and some other major shopping cities. It displaced a major national event - The Boy Scouts of America Jamboree - when thousands of young boys set up camp for a few days and enjoyed the surrounding sights and the many events[EN1] .

Fashion Island has proved it could draw from the surrounding communities. Its character reflects the current buying tastes of an upscale and discriminating clientele that are provided a wide range of choices. One such favorite place in Fashion Island is Bristol Farms, a gourmet’s delight. And for Regulus, no epicurean, it is the nearest market for him to pick up a monthly Kobe steak to grill for he and his daughter, Reanna. He learned to like Kobe steaks in Japan while on rehab leave from Vietnam. An indulgence for Regulus at $99.99 each, it is the only food item he allows himself to splurge on. Besides, it’s a special treat for Reanna. Right now, Kobe and things Japanese were far from his mind.

At 8:45 Monday morning, James Craigston, using Regulus' private number instead of his public one, returned the call to the chief detective. Craigston knew the detective by reputation and while he considered Regulus a tougher than usual adversary, he believed he could bluff him away as he had so many others. Might take a little longer, that's all. Besides, Chief Sequious earlier had given him a rundown on Regulus, even his private telephone number. Regulus, too, knew of Craigston's unsavory reputation and could picture him standing erect, gazing at the ocean, all 6 ft. 2 inches of sinew. His muscular frame and full white mane belied 55 years of cunning and conniving in oh, so snakely gracious a manner. His brutal and rumored animalism was always carefully hidden.

"Good morning Officer," Craigston said in his booming and mellifluous baritone voice over the telephone. "I got your message, how may I be of help, how's that old clunker running?" making a presumptive sales pitch (all TV detectives drive clunkers, don't they?) trying to get 'one up' on the detective. Regulus was concerned how Craigston got his private number but decided not to press him on it now.

"Fine," said the detective, "got any specials this week?" Hey, Craigston thought, could he be that easy? After a few more parries, the detective cut him off. "I have a very important matter to discuss with you, Mr. Craigston, as soon as possible." 'What's this about, Officer?" “ I'd rather talk with you in person. Will sometime in the next hour be convenient?" “ How about 9:15?" said Craigston.

Regulus returned the Chief’s call as he was walking to the elevator in Craigston's Fashion Island office building. Craigston had recently bought the entire building but its old identification had not yet been changed. It still read "Building 242." Craigston would adorn his name to it with as large and gaudy letters as the planning commission would allow, even a little larger.

“Regulus,” in as certain a tone he ever heard from the Chief, “I want Frank Jones to handle that drowning case. You’ll be retiring soon anyway and there’s no way the case could be wrapped up by then.” Regulus smelled a rat. He had never been removed from any case he had worked on, for any reason. And he would never leave this case hanging, retirement or not. He quickly answered with a diversion; “I’m on my way to the DA’s office as soon as I finish here.” And a gratuitous, "I'm sure the DA feels confident I can give him an indictable case if it's a homicide." (Of course, the DA had said that about every homicide Regulus headed.) “Do you want me to pass the word you want to talk with him?” said Regulus. ”I just saw him in Ruby’s getting coffee as I drove by. He usually stops there on the way to his office, me too, but I was on the way to this location.” (Ruby’s is a 1950’s theme shake and burger place on the Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach where you can still get a chocolate malt and an old fashioned hamburger; Regulus would’ve stopped but he was headed to see James Craigston across the street in the Fashion Island complex.)

“I’m in Mr. James Craigston's office lobby now and expect to see him in a minute. But I’ll pass the word you want to talk with the DA,” Regulus said. “So you think he wants you on the Stafford case, huh?” said Sequious already rapidly backing down at the thought of having to talk with the DA. And with much weaker resolve in his voice, “you’re into it pretty deep already, the Stafford case, right?” Chief Sequious was already making excuses to himself why he could not remove Regulus from the case right now, maybe later. To make a flap about it now would likely blow any chance Sequious could keep his job. “Right, Chief, I’ll keep in touch,” said Regulus, breathing a little easier. The last thing Sequious wanted now was a head-to-head with the DA. He always lost those confrontations. Even if he had the DA's pager number, which he did not, Sequious could not think of any reason he would ever need to call him. It was unusual for the Chief to be up on a case this quickly though, Regulus thought.

The diminutive Ms. Thorsworthy politely ushered Regulus into the intimidating opulence of the 12th floor suite of the Snake of the Southland, the James Craigston. The outrageously decadent Moroccan leather chairs exuded a "rich" and ostentatious air. It was as impressive and spacious as he had heard; black Italian marble floor graced by the largest Persian carpet Regulus had ever seen; period furnishings; heavy drapes surrounded the entire eighteen foot high walls. A six-foot specially commissioned frieze extended around the room. With opened drapes, the full magnificent and sweeping view of the Pacific Ocean extended as far as the eye could see up and down the coast. The pool table sized desk near the window was too large a work surface and Craigston sensibly offered Regulus a seat to the side. Craigston then slid into a chair alongside him making it difficult for Regulus to see directly into his sharp and narrowing blue eyes.

"I have a report Mrs. Jan Stafford Craigston possibly drowned or was murdered Sunday night or early this morning" - pause – Craigston hesitated a moment too long. Evasively and with a 'shocked, shocked' look he said, "Why no, detective Regulus, my wife is just fine and is visiting her sister in Tennessee." "She left for Nashville at 6:05 this morning on the American flight from John Wayne airport."

With an affected concern, "where on earth did that story come from and who was that unfortunate drowned woman? Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Can I get you a Scotch or something?" Baiting Regulus. Craigston's assistant, Ms. Thorsworthy, was still in the room and Regulus wanted to keep the conversation with him as confidential as he could.

"The papers," Regulus said noncommittally, holding up his hand "no" to the liquor offer. He wondered how Craigston knew with such certainty it was a “drowning.” And then Regulus asked, "Would it be asking too much for a cup of coffee?" "Of course not," as Craigston motioned to his aide who glided alluringly out of the room. "Black, please," said Regulus.

While she was gone, Regulus rapid-fired a series of questions to Craigston eliciting mostly yes or no answers, many of the same ones he wanted to ask Ms. Thorsworthy. As she was returning with the coffee, the last question to Craigston was ‘what time did you leave the birthday party Sunday night?' but Regulus was not sure whether Ms. Thorsworthy overheard the question. So before Craigston had a chance to answer, he came back with an innocuous and leading question to him. "Did Ms. Thorsworthy attend the party?" Regulus asked Craigston, setting a little trap. However, she replied first, "no, I was making arrangements for Mrs. Craigston's flight to Nashville." Regulus caught Craigston's slight flinch and the flashing eyes between them. Craigston had taken the bait. Regulus sensed this interview was about to be finished. He knew they wanted to talk - not to him but to each other.

"Detective Regulus," said Craigston, standing up to his full height, "I'd better speak with my attorney before we carry this discussion further," with obvious nonchalance. "As you like, Mr. Craigston, I look forward to talking with you about this some more in the very near future. Include your attorney if you prefer." Regulus then said sardonically, “you included, Ms. Thorsworthy?” "Yes, Detective Regulus," she said, "Please call me Netta." No sarcastic repartee this time, no more name mispronunciation either. He did not tell her she would be questioned separately. “Oh yes, Ms. Thorsworthy, do you have a number where I can reach Mrs. Craigston in Nashville?” The two didn’t insist on a little coffee klatch with Regulus.

Regulus got about as many answers in round one as he expected but he always wanted more; the pattern was typical - no one knows about anything or anybody, then they talk in dribs and drabs when they think they might be caught in a serious lie.

Now it was Regulus’ turn to believe no one until the facts told him the truth. He definitely was not expecting any help from the Chief. He now expected diversions and cover-ups from who knows where. A simple drowning? As if 'simple drowning' might ease Regulus’ slight gnawing feeling, a burning in his stomach, the one-too-many pepperoni pizzas kind. Perhaps he was becoming sensitized, seeing too many dead people. And he had seen many dead, vacant eyes. He did not personally know any of the victims who made up his homicide cases and wondered if his reaction would be the same if he knew them.

His title of Chief Detective did not tell the whole story. When it was 'his turn,' he liked to say, “Just leave me alone, I’ll do my job.” But Regulus left no one else alone if he thought they might have something, anything, to do with his case. He never hesitated to call in 'chips' from his law enforcement friends in Los Angeles or Sacramento or even the FBI. They all recognized the bearish, balding Regulus and they respected and feared his steel-trap memory. Out of shape or not, nobody hassled Regulus.

The coroner’s preliminary report said drowning was the cause of death and that details from the lab would be forthcoming as quickly as possible. Who was this woman that looked so much like Jan Stafford Craigston? To Regulus, she looked a little older than the pictures in the paper, but still a beauty. The fast track got this lady somewhere fast all right. Highflying right into the Back Bay with no way “back up,” he thought grimly.

So far, this case was not adding up for Regulus; no witnesses, no claim for the body, no positive I.D., no motive for murder or suicide, nothing but the kid who spotted the body and a newspaper story. But it was early and Regulus always thought cases should be disposed of quicker than they usually were; things are not always as they seem, he reminded himself once again, they are always worse than they seem. Could it be another bizarre left coast incident where even jury nullification is passé? No one had reported the dead beautiful blonde missing. Why? And just who was she?, Regulus mused.




CHAPTER 3

Craigston kept a finger in every major real estate and development pie in the Los Angeles area. Because of his implied power and financial influence, he was listened to from Sacramento to Washington. He practically rewrote the federal Clean Air Act for automobiles effectively eliminating sports utility vehicles (SUV's) and light trucks from the tougher smog emissions requirements. Co-option was his game; if he could convince people to buy cars from a 'snake,' Craigston could charm anyone.

Elected people, a particularly naïve group, were easy meat for Craigston. Just a hint of some real campaign money was usually all it would take. Nothing in writing, of course. Thrice married and others on the side, Craigston was well known for his Hollywood style escapades. Cars and condos were his typical payoffs with a paternity suit settlement here and there. DNA testing was not his ally.

Craigston appeared a youthful 55, white mane and muscular build, a kind of Marlboro man who smoked only cigars – expensive but illegal Cuban cigars. His entrepreneurial rise from nothing to billionaire, so typically Californian also enhanced his ability to attract the wannabes who would stoop or kneel to anything to curry his favor.

After doing a preliminary report and punching in the numbers for his call maker, the first number Regulus connected with was the Stafford residence in Nashville. Regulus set the policy that he, personally, would inform relatives of their deceased. It was a chary job and extremely important. He still had to be sure it was not Jan Stafford's body. That is why Regulus was startled by the following conversation: “Mr. Stafford?” “Yes?” he said. “Detective Charles Regulus with the Newport Beach police department.” “O-k-a-y,” Stafford said slowly and noncommittally. “Do you know of a Jan Stafford in Newport Beach, married to a Mr. James Craigston?” asked Regulus. Stafford then blurted out “look detective whatever your name is, I don’t know a Jan Stafford married to whoever that was . . .” And before Regulus could respond, CLICK. Redial. Busy. Whoa, thought Regulus, there’s a lot more there but he’d have to call back later.

Meanwhile, the coroner had more to report. The drowning was not from salty bay water but from one of the fancier designer bottled waters, Swizzlpruf, imported from Bavaria. “How do you drown in the Back Bay from imported water?” Regulus mused. The other details were not unusual. Markless, except for some broken fingernails, the body contained some alcohol but no recent drugs, little food, and was somewhat dehydrated at the time of death which was between 9:45 p.m. Sunday and 12:45 a.m. Monday morning; five foot five, body weight 129 pounds, three month’s with child . . . suicide/murder - or murder/murder . . . Regulus had never heard of anyone committing suicide with bottled water.

Since 1946, The Hague International Court and Germany required all exported Bavarian water to be marked with a taggant, a microscopically small, inert and harmless agent meant to make identification easier. Prohibited from manufacturing deuterium, the company, Wolksbergen AG, was well experienced in the manufacture of heavy water for the war effort in Germany's attempt to construct a hydrogen bomb in 1942. While their attempts were unsuccessful to that point, deuterium, none-the-less, presented a major threat to the allied campaign in Europe. German scientists had not refined the process sufficiently to perfect the hydrogen bomb but they had come very close to doing it. An Allied Command undercover operation destroyed the deuterium capacity in 1943, taking it off the war table.

Only one Bavarian bottler, Wolksbergen AG, produced the Swizzlpruf brand. Since 1946, they had become the world’s largest exporters of so-called designer bottled water and the taggants had aided Interpol in solving some significant international crime cases. Many Americans preferred imported bottled water and domestic mineral waters to ordinary treated water out of their tap. The Swizzlpruf brand of bottled water could clearly be seen in some photos in the paper that morning.

Regulus now was receiving too much obvious evidence to take in one donut gulp. He must immediately find out if James Craigston had any connection whatsoever with the Swizzlpruf manufacturer in Bavaria.

The hair on Regulus’ neck began to creep as he realized that all the 'obvious evidence' was beginning to look like a cover-up of very large proportions.

The promontory of the eastern most Castaways cliff allows a view of the Back Bay channel as it meanders inland for another half mile. And from the end of the promontory as the bay turns sharply, a direct downward view of, legend has it, where a complete house totally disappeared in the darkness of a Back Bay storm many years ago. All that remained after the storm were a few brown boards that were blown up to the end of the bay.

Now, siltation from development in the last 30 or 40 years was filling up the bay, a major dredging project was underway to provide additional navigable water, and more boat slips. The major promoter of the project, James Craigston, claimed however, it was to 'save the Back Bay wildlife.'

Every day the barges of Onshore Dredging Co. carry their huge loads of black silt four miles offshore, dumping them into an ecologically approved trench 4000 feet deep. The accuracy of the drops, controlled by the Global Positioning System (GPS), was supposed to be precise within ten feet.

One of their barges would make an excellent platform for a fireworks show, thought the detective. He also remembered reading something about Craigston being involved in the multi-million dollar dredging contract for the Back Bay. Craigston seemed acutely interested in everything that happened in and around the bay. His whole empire seemed focused on it.

The fog rolled in Monday night and the foghorns' doleful, long spaced sound - PAHrumpf . . . PAHrumpf . . . PAHrumpf - was as depressing as the progress Regulus had made in this case so far. He now believed it was a sure homicide. And he had found out which barge was used for the Sunday night fireworks. He instructed forensics to gather all the evidence they could from the barge and from the general area of the party, which already had been yellow-taped. It would be impossible to find and interview all the hundreds of invited guests and the party crashers. However, in these type public cases, it would not be unusual for one or more 'witnesses' to come forward. Most of them would be publicity seekers or for whatever whacko reasons they may have. And some of them probably had camcorders . . .

Nothing was making a lot of sense. Every lead just raised more questions. Now comes forensics saying Jan Stafford’s pictures in the paper did not match her fingerprints. The prints said her real name was Marybeth Robertson from Sonoma, CA. Born there, died here. Way too soon. A quean with a short rap sheet. Maybe she should have found her way to Sonoma sooner. Her resemblance to a police file photo of Jan Stafford was eerily close.

The Los Angeles Times story byline of the party read Phyllis Shorter. A homicide beat reporter for many years for the Times, Shorter now was a freelance stringer covering whatever she wanted; whatever she could make a buck on. Phyllis immediately returned Regulus’ pager call. She knew him by reputation as well as his unusual ability to think two steps ahead of suspects. She would gladly tell him anything he wanted to know.

“We just pulled a body out of the Back Bay this morning. We thought it might be Mrs. Jan Stafford Craigston or her twin sister but it’s neither," said Regulus.

“Oh no,” murmured Phyllis, shocked. “Dead?” As if she didn’t want to believe Regulus. “Know anything about it, Phyllis?” said Regulus. “Yes, but I didn’t know anyone would be hurt. Was it an accident?” “ Drowning, could’ve been an accident," he said. “Want to talk about it now, or come on down to the station here in Newport Beach?” “I, well,” she stammered, “I took this chick I knew who looked just like Jan Stafford to the big blast Sunday night to help her out, contacts you know.”

“I thought she might get a chance to meet Mrs. James Craigston, which she did, and others. She’s been down on her luck lately. The older queanies have a tougher time of it, you know.” “ I had no idea it would turn bad,” said Phyllis in a husky voice Regulus could smell over the telephone.

“What was her name?” he asked. “Marybeth, Marybeth Robertson, yes, from upstate” as if she suddenly remembered her last name. And then she blurted, "oh my God! I didn't know, I looked around for her before I left, in a rush you know, to write up the birthday story and to get the pics ready for the morning edition. I figured she had coupled up with somebody . . . Oh my GOD!" Sobbed Phyllis.

It was about time that he got some corroboration in this case, thought Regulus. "Could you come on down and I.D. her for us anyway?" "Sssure" Phyllis moaned.

Regulus called the number he got from Netta Thorsworthy. Craigston's story checked out. Mrs. Jan Stafford Craigston really was visiting her sister in Tennessee now and she told Regulus about the party Sunday night. She was delighted with the fireworks; but they had given her a headache from the noise and from craning her neck on the fireworks barge, and from firing, herself, each salvo from the control panel. She left the party shortly before 9:45 p.m., driving herself to her spacious home on Balboa peninsula nearby. She offered to call Regulus back if she recalled anything else helpful.

He felt she wanted to talk about something, something she had 'recalled' right now.

"I don't want to frighten you, Mrs. Craigston, but for your safety I would suggest that you and your sister go to a place your husband does not know about and stay there temporarily. All this may just be some confused mistaken identity stuff," said Regulus, trying to smooth out some of his pointed words.

"Can you do that?" he asked. "Yes, we know of a place where he can't find us." "Good, when you arrive please call me at my private number." "I can be reached any time of the day or night" and she jotted down the number. Also, please do not discuss this with anyone, understand? Not anyone."

"Yes, I understand," Jan said, her voice quivering. Jan would call Detective Regulus as soon as they arrived at a place on a lake north of Nashville. Craigston would never find her there she thought.

Almost immediately after talking with Jan, Regulus got a call from the Stafford fellow in Tennessee who had said earlier he knew nothing. Apparently he did. Now he said he knew a lot. Robert Stafford, Jan's brother, did not mind being recorded and began to tell a convoluted story of drugs, murder and mayhem that he knew of but, of course, had nothing to do with. As soon as Regulus’ first call to the Robert Stafford residence had ended, Robert immediately called the 'real' Jan Stafford at her home on Balboa Island. He learned to his relief that the confused reports of her death were, at the least, premature.

Robert Stafford was in way over his head in gambling debts and through connections in Nashville, Craigston knew about them. It seemed the only way out for Robert. He knew the scum James Craigston was behind the offer to give him $50,000 to call his sister as a 'surprise' during her birthday party. But Robert had no qualms about taking the money. Craigston had tons of it. At first, he thought maybe Craigston really was being magnanimous. Now the realization had sunk in; Robert was almost duped into killing his own sister.

"It was to be a surprise call to Jan, at exactly 9:45 Sunday night and I was supposed to give her a four digit code - Star 4879 - which she was to enter in her cell phone and press "Send"," said Robert. "Thank God I reached her at home, a little later than 9:45, she had left the party a little early." Robert was gaining his composure a bit. "I began to see the total mistake I had made in believing him in the first place and for believing he would pay me $50,000 for such a 'trivial' job. It made me sick just thinking about what I almost caused." Regulus had to put his cone of skepticism over this guy. Was Robert Stafford doing the conning now? Regulus might have to ask the DA to subpoena him as a material witness or as a co-conspirator to attempted murder. Get in and get out fast with a big payoff, $50,000, to take care of his gambling debts. It seemed enticing enough to Robert Stafford for a 'nothing' job.

Robert was a Nashville street gambler and never worked much out of his southern territory - never involving murder. He became very upset when he read the Associated Press story in the Los Angeles Times, Internet page. The picture looked very much like his sister Jan. But by the time the story had been printed, the AP had semi-retracted their story. They had checked it out more thoroughly from a tip and discovered it was not Mrs. James Craigston, a.k.a. Jan Stafford Craigston, who had drowned. There was a body but not that of Jan Stafford Craigston. The correction put out by the AP did not elaborate but simply stated it was a case of mistaken identity, no more than that. That's how they left it.

Charles Regulus called his old friend in Nashville, Police Chief Thornton Warren, and said, “Thorny, got a favor to ask.” “What’s that?” said the Chief. “Got a real sticky one here,” said Regulus. “There’s a man there in Nashville, a Robert Stafford, I’d like you to pick up for questioning. It probably will be good for his own skin. He may have been involved in an attempted murder out here Sunday night.” “ Sure, Charlie old buddy, fax me the details. Anything else?” said Thornton. “Yes,” said Regulus, ”see if you can find anything on a James Craigston, or name something like that. He left there some thirty years ago, suddenly, I heard.” “ He has become quite successful out here, into car dealerships and real estate,” said Regulus. “Send me anything you've got on him and I’ll check that one too and get back to you,” Thornton replied. Regulus knew Thornton Warren would help him in any way possible and not just because Regulus had saved his life in Vietnam. They were long time friends and they had survived Army Ranger training in the woods of the North Georgia Mountains.

emnorsworthy@earthlink.net



[EN1]
Was the Jamboree an annual event? How many years was it there? Was it for two weeks, or how long?