Past Imperfect

by Remington Kane

  By the time he got in the van and drove away from the area, the coroner and the news crews had come and gone. When he stopped in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant to count the money, he was pleased to see that he had gotten away with a hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars.

  He’d previously spent time digging a hole in the basement of the rooming house. There was an old unused oil furnace that took up space and was only good for scrap metal. Ballou removed the furnace’s outer layer and dug his hole inside the furnace and covered it up with cement. To make it even less noticeable, he smeared soot on top of the fresh cement. As the building manager, he had his living quarters down in the basement and could keep watch over the money. It was rare for anyone other than himself to venture down there and he would have the cash close at hand if he ever needed to go on the run.

  When he laid his head on the pillow that night it took some time to fall asleep. A part of him was listening for the sound of sirens, but they never came.

  The robbery made the news and the police vowed that the “cowardly perpetrator” of the crime would be apprehended. The media named him the Smoke Bandit. Ballou smiled at the appellation given him. The story was big news for a few days and then was replaced by a sensational love triangle that ended with the husband of a woman killing her lover on live TV.

  Nine weeks later, most people had forgotten all about the incident and armored car guards had stopped looking over their shoulders. That was when Ballou struck again.

  He killed three armored car guards. The first two died as they were returning to their vehicle after making a pickup from a bank. The third one, the driver, managed to get off a shot that missed Ballou by an inch. Ballou’s shotgun needed less accuracy. Even though most of the pellets missed their target, the ones that hit the guard did malicious things to his throat. The driver bled to death before Ballou had even released his first smoke grenade. Once again, he used yellow crayons to give the smoke its color.

  This time he was in a busier area and the bank was in the center of a strip mall. One of the shops was a weight loss center that catered to women. It was right next to a bakery. Ballou found that to be humorous. He assumed the bakery and the weight loss center often catered to the same customers.

  He had no vehicle and had arrived by bus. In the last two weeks he had watched the area carefully and knew that police cars drove by often. Their response time would be quicker than at the last bank.

  He walked through the smoke feeling his way along by counting the nearby parked vehicles. Two more smoke grenades ensured that he stayed hidden from view. When he reached the door of an older car, Ballou used a slim Jim bar to unlock it. After hitting the latch release for the trunk, he climbed inside it along with the bag full of cash he carried. He was taking a huge risk but deemed it necessary and a good bet.

  While doing his research and observation on the bank and the armored car delivery times, Ballou had noticed something taking place. The car he was in belonged to a man named Vincent Cassio. Cassio worked at a business that was a mile away. Ballou had observed him parking his car in the lot at the same time Monday through Friday. That was not unusual behavior since Vincent arrived around lunchtime and the strip mall offered several eateries to choose from. However, Vincent hungered for something other than food.

  After parking his car, Vincent would rush across the street, walk around the corner, and enter Room 22 of The Rest Stop Motel. Ballou’s curiosity was piqued enough to investigate. He learned that Vincent was married and having an affair with his boss’s wife. They met each day at lunchtime and in the same room. Vincent was wise enough not to park his car in front of the motel where anyone could see it. That included his wife.

  Ballou had taken pictures of the loving couple one day when Vincent was leaving the room in a rush to get back to work. He took several photos of them kissing. Ballou’s interest in the illicit affair wasn’t voyeuristic. He had been racking his brain trying to think of a good way to get away once he had the money and was coming up empty until he noticed Vincent. The adulterer would be his ticket out.

  Vincent had arrived at the shopping center sixteen minutes before the armored car appeared. He would eventually drive back to the plumbing supply business he worked at. Once that happened, Ballou would free himself from the trunk and walk to his van. He had left the vehicle in the parking lot of a busy convenience store. As long as he returned to it within a few hours no one should wonder why it was there. Ballou figured that only two things could ruin his day. Vincent would decide to open his trunk for some reason, or worse yet, a cop would search the car. Ballou thought both of those actions unlikely and settled in the dark trunk to wait.

  He’d been in the trunk for only four minutes when a police car came screaming into the parking lot. That was so soon after the robbery that there were probably still wisps of yellow smoke wafting through the air. Six more sirens arrived within the next few minutes. One of them was likely an ambulance. At one point, Ballou heard someone complaining about the police cordoning off the exits. If they decided to search every vehicle in the parking lot, he was screwed.

  That didn’t happen, but officers did conduct interviews. Vincent must have gotten caught up in it because it was more than an hour later when Ballou heard the car door open. After that, he felt the vehicle rock from the weight of someone getting into it.

  The engine came to life and soon they were on the move. Ballou was glad but wouldn’t count himself home free until he was out of the damn trunk and driving away in his own van. The short ride to the plumbing supply store ended. The engine cut off, the car door opened, and the vehicle rose slightly as Vincent got out.

  Ballou waited a full minute before easing the trunk open and looking around. Employees of the plumbing supply business parked in the rear, while customer parking was in the front. There was no one around and the lone camera was pointed toward the corrugated steel door at the loading dock.

  Ballou climbed out of the trunk with his ill-gotten gain concealed in a garbage bag and limped off toward the convenience store where he’d left his van. He was limping because he had developed a cramp in his left calf after being scrunched up in Vincent’s trunk for so long. As he walked past the plumbing supplies store’s mailbox. Ballou slipped an envelope into it. It was addressed to the business owner. Inside the envelope were the pictures Ballou had taken of Vincent and his boss’s wife. Ballou had no love for cheaters, and he figured, why the hell not?

  When he counted his haul, he was elated to see that he had scored big. He added three hundred and twenty-five thousand to his growing pile of cash. A few more scores like that and he’d be ready to retire. Ballou buried the money in the basement of his rooming house with the rest of the cash and went back to living the quiet life. When the manhunt for the Smoke Bandit died down again, he would decide on a new target. For the first time in years Ballou felt good about his future. He should have known better.

  Chapter 6

  Lee Kirkpatrick lived on a fifty-six-acre farm that was less than an hour’s drive from Memphis. He shared the farm with his three brothers. Through Lawson, White and Jessica learned that Kirkpatrick’s brothers all had arrest records. There was nothing in them as serious as the two murders Lee had committed, but there were assault charges. The oldest brother, Ray Jr., had recently served three months in the county jail on a DUI charge.

  White felt certain that Lee Kirkpatrick might be able to lead them to finding Ballou. Even better, he might be harboring Ballou on his family farm. With that in mind, White decided to sneak onto the property and have a look around before attempting to speak with Kirkpatrick.

  White and Jessica had traveled to Tennessee and landed in Memphis, where they took a hotel room. It was raining and the wet weather was projected to last until morning. Back home, Violet was watching her brother and sisters while they were away. They expected to be gone less than two days.

  Jessica insisted on accompanying White to the farm. If he ran into trouble, she wanted
to be there to back him up. She drove their rental while he went over the weapons and equipment he was taking with him. They had arranged with Lawson to have a package waiting for them at their hotel.

  “I’m only going to have a look around to see if I can spot Ballou,” White said. “If he’s hiding out here, we’ll grab him and then give Sienna a call.”

  “If he is here, that will make things easy for us. Otherwise, we could be looking at spending months tracking him down, and that’s only if we get lucky.”

  White turned his head and looked at Jessica. “You would have preferred that I refused to help Sienna?”

  “Yes and no. Identifying killers is one thing, tracking them down after they’ve had a two-year head start is something altogether different. That said, I know that you feel as if you owe Sienna for stalking her all those years ago. When we do find Ballou for her, you’ll be more at peace with your past. I want that for you. You’ve spent too many years kicking yourself for acts you committed as a teenager. You were a confused and lonely boy of seventeen when you stalked Sienna and abducted me. Since that time, you’ve done more good for people than anyone I know. Find Ballou and ease your conscience, but know this, you have nothing to make up for. You’ve already done that many times over.”

  White was silent for a long moment before he nodded. “I did agree to help because of guilt, and I’m sorry that I’ve involved you as well. I don’t think I could find Ballou without you.”

  Jessica reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. “We’ve always been a team. That will never change. We’ll find Kent Ballou, and then he’ll never hurt anyone ever again.”

  THREE YEARS AGO

  Ballou made his third robbery of an armored car a full five months after the second one. He figured that was more than enough time for any task force that might have been formed to catch him to give up and disband. Armored car personnel would have also grown relaxed again.

  For this heist, Ballou stayed away from banks. Instead, he robbed the armored car crew as they were stopped at a diner to have lunch. He knew from observing them that they picked up money at a bank’s main branch before taking a break for their meal. While two of the men ate, the third, a guy who looked too young to shave, stayed inside the vehicle with the money. The meal break was against the rules, but the crew risked being reprimanded for it every Friday. Ballou guessed that it was the day that they got paid. He wanted to get paid too.

  The diner was less than a thousand yards away from a freeway ramp. Once the robbery was done, Ballou would be headed away from the scene and just another vehicle on a busy highway.

  When the two veteran guards returned from eating, they always brought food back for their young partner. They would also open the rear doors so that he could switch positions with one of the other men. It was at that moment when Ballou struck.

  He’d been hiding behind a dumpster that was several yards away from where the guards always parked. Despite the warm spring weather, Ballou was dressed in a raincoat. It would help keep the guards’ blood off the clothes he wore under it.

  As was his signature, he attacked without warning and unloaded on them with the shotgun. The young guard had just stepped down from the rear of the vehicle when he took a blast to the chest. The impact sent him falling sideways but there was no blood. It looked like the men were wearing vests. Ballou compensated for that by aiming for their heads. The result was horrific and left three all but headless bodies in his wake.

  One of the guards had gotten off a shot before dying. The slug sliced a groove across the outer portion of Ballou’s left thigh. The pain was incredible, and the leg buckled, taking him to one knee. Ballou fought to push the agony aside so that he could rise up and grab as much money as he could. Before doing that, he made sure to reload the shotgun.

  As he headed closer to the armored car he looked down and was startled by how much blood he had lost. He ignored it and gathered up the biggest bank bag he saw. The thing weighed over thirty pounds and was all that he could handle with one hand while keeping the shotgun tucked against him. His other hand was busy reaching for a smoke grenade.

  “Freeze, asshole!”

  Ballou jerked his head around at the shouted command and saw a man in jeans and a gray T-shirt walking towards him from the diner with a gun in his hand. The man was over sixty and didn’t give off the vibe of a cop. Ballou figured he was an armed civilian looking to be a hero.

  When the guy came closer, he made the mistake of taking in the horrific sight of the guard’s bodies. A moment later and he was throwing up the pancakes and sausage he’d just eaten. Ballou shot the man before he had stopped spewing and the body fell into the vomit. Something about that made Ballou laugh. He was still chuckling when he set off the first of four smoke grenades.

  Sirens could be heard coming closer as Ballou climbed into the stolen pickup truck he was using for a getaway vehicle. His wound, along with the good Samaritan, had slowed him down. He had expected to be on the freeway by the time the cops arrived.

  Ballou sped out of the yellow smoke he’d left behind and found a police car headed towards him. The cop screeched to a halt the same time as Ballou. Their vehicles were less than twelve feet apart. Ballou leaned out the side window with the shotgun and peppered the police car as the cop was attempting to get out of it. The officer, who was wearing a vest, suffered serious wounds to his throat and face.

  Ballou ignored the man’s screams of pain and drove off. He was headed up the on-ramp of the freeway when he saw two police cars coming down the off-ramp on the other side of the avenue. If they cut across the roadway to give chase, things could get hairy.

  That didn’t happen. Ballou took the first exit off the freeway and traveled three miles before making a turn onto an old cracked and weedy road that led to a defunct factory that used to make bathtubs. The old building had wide doors. Ballou had left a pair of them open and drove right inside the building.

  His leg wound was screaming with pain and had soaked his pantleg with blood. Ballou removed the raincoat, dropped his pants, and studied the injury.

  It actually wasn’t that bad but would leave him with one hell of a scar. He wanted to take the time to clean the wound and bandage it but knew that would be a mistake. He needed to keep moving.

  Along with the pickup truck he’d also stolen a car. It was small, beige, and blended into the background. Ballou hefted up the bank bag and tossed it in the car’s trunk. The weight of the bag made him wonder if he might have hit the jackpot.

  A million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighed about twenty-two pounds. The bag he had was much heavier than that. He fought the temptation to take a look inside the bag and climbed behind the wheel of the car. He was about to drive off when he remembered something. Ballou returned to the pickup truck, removed a can of lighter fluid from the glovebox, and proceeded to set the pickup on fire. That would eliminate any fingerprints he left behind and give the police science geeks less to work with.

  He locked the doors behind himself and drove away. The truck would burn up but not the building. The structure was made of brick, concrete, and thick steel girders.

  Ballou was miles away when he made a right and saw a police helicopter in the distance. It was running a search pattern over the freeway. They were no doubt looking for the pickup truck that the cop’s dashcam camera recorded. His face might be on there as well, but it wouldn’t matter. He’d still been wearing a mask at the time.

  It wasn’t until an hour later when he got a chance to look inside the bag. His heart sank when he saw the wrapped bundles of one-dollar bills. He took them out and stacked them neatly. Each package was worth two-thousand dollars. It was peanuts compared to what he had been hoping for, but then he found what else the bag contained. The final four wrapped bundles were in denominations of fifties and hundreds. Ballou had stolen six-hundred and eight thousand dollars. Combined with his other scores he had over a million dollars.

  He woke the next morning to find his woun
d doing well, which meant he wouldn’t have to risk going to a doctor. The cop he had shot died overnight from a stroke brought on by his wounds. Ballou was a cop killer and a multiple murderer. He was also a millionaire and closing in on his long-desired goal of never having to work another day in his life.

  A million was nice, but two million would be nicer. Greed would be Kent Ballou’s downfall.

  Chapter 7

  Lee Kirkpatrick had never worked an honest job. He sold weed when he was a teen, then moved on to smuggling coke after dropping out of high school. He had become a skinhead because he had a thing for a girl who was part of the movement.

  That girl’s brother was the one who had pulled the trigger on the two black men he was later charged with killing. It was the girl who testified against him in court. Kirkpatrick did hard time for many years. The girl’s brother cut a deal to rat on other skinheads and only spent one night in jail.

  The snitch and his sister went missing and were never heard from again. Kirkpatrick’s brothers, Ray and Carl, saw to that.

  Kirkpatrick and Ballou bonded after sharing their stories with each other when they were in prison. They were both serving time for murders they hadn’t committed and understood the sense of injustice each other felt. They were innocent of their crimes, but not angels by any stretch of the imagination.

  Ray Jr. was Kirkpatrick’s oldest sibling and an alcoholic. Kirkpatrick was a year younger than Ray and a year older than Carl. Jimmy was the baby of the family. The older brothers were teenagers when he was born. Not one of them was shorter than six-foot-three and the Kirkpatricks were known for their tempers. Their father had once beaten a man bloody for looking at him the wrong way. He was also inclined to hand out beatings to his wife and sons.