by Frank Perry
all-hands staff meeting with the SAC and his staff, which lasted one hour. As usual, Luke was almost late. Grabbing his coffee and notebook, he rushed to the conference room. Each of the ASACs was given time to brief the group on investigations and intelligence concerning their assigned areas. Most of it was boring, except the terrorist intelligence that had been growing for several weeks.
After the meeting, Luke made a call to the Cary Police Department asking for Officer Ruiz, who was mentioned in the bulletin. She wasn’t on duty and the desk officer had not seen her crime report yet, stating it could take a couple days. Luke planned to call again that night when Ruiz was on duty. He asked for directions to the crime scene. The desk officer told him this was under their jurisdiction, and he would need clearance from the Chief. Luke said he would talk to the Chief later. Next, he called the Lake County Medical Examiner. The ME on duty was in the middle of an autopsy, but said she would fax him the report on the victim, Eric Curran, within 24 hours. She commented that preliminary results indicated the cause of death as multiple gunshot wounds, with the most damaging being in the upper thorax, rear entry, front exit, and a shot to the right temple exiting out the frontal lobe. Either one was deadly. The bullets all exited the body and she thought none were recovered.
Since the scene was fresh, Luke requisitioned a car and drove to Cary. The drive from downtown took over an hour. On the way he called the Cary PD again to tell them he was coming.
Arriving at the station, the desk Sergeant said Officer Ruiz was en route, offering him a drink. Luke accepted a cup of water and sat in the lobby for ten minutes before she arrived. As they exchanged greetings, a state police car pulled up in front, and an officer named Rodgers came in. As the group made further introductions, the Chief of Police, Stefan Stoner, joined them. Apparently, a visit by the FBI was a special event.
Luke spent a few minutes explaining the FBI’s interest before asking to visit the scene. Both officers were eager to help, and the Chief deferred to them for escort. Ruiz accepted a ride with Luke, while Rodgers drove his cruiser. He was surprised how short the drive was to the golf course, no more than three minutes. This was a huge crime for a small town. On the way, Ruiz told him about the investigation conducted early that morning. When they arrived, the scene was still fenced off with yellow tape.
On foot, Ruiz pointed to where tire impressions had been taken, evident from plaster on the ground.
“We got some tire impressions, but they could be from patrol cars that were driving all over the place.”
Luke just nodded and followed her under the yellow tape, heading toward the fairway. She continued, “It’s hard to tell now, but the path was easier to read last night before police walked over everything. There was a trail through the brush and some blood leading over there,” pointing toward the fairway.
She showed him where she thought the victim had stumbled or run through the brush. Trooper Rodgers remained silent as they followed Ruiz. The trampled foliage and blood trail were no longer discernable. She interpreted the scene as she recalled it from the morning’s dark hours. The clues involved the victim, four nine-millimeter shell casings and a witness. She pointed to the shed up the hill.
To Luke, it had all the characteristics of a mob killing. The murderer was a cold-blooded professional.
Hours later, he was starving, but heading back to the city, he did not stop for lunch. He wanted to investigate the victim.
Although he’d been in Chicago for only a few months, he was working with a new academy graduate, Angela Kerr. She had a degree in computer science, but no work experience before joining the bureau. Growing up as an only child in rural upstate New York, her parents were both schoolteachers and environmentalists. She was smart, but did not have many friends and avoided social interaction. Most men would consider her cute with straight brown hair and clear skin, but not beautiful. Of average height and small build, she liked to dress conservatively on and off the job. As a woman still in her early twenties, she did not draw attention to herself and had no serious romantic relation that anyone knew about.
For the rest of the day, both agents searched various databases for information about Eric Curran. Luke began looking into the shipping company. Like most of them, MLC Ltd. was family owned and operated, close to O’Hare Airport. Trains and trucks handled most overland cargo, but airfreight was common for overseas shipments.
Angela checked Curran’s records, finding that he’d attended college in the 1990’s at Northern Illinois University, but did not graduate. he’d an easy career in the father’s freight business, MLC Forwarding, Inc. There was no marriage record, and no criminal reports. He owned an old house on the Fox River, with the usual assortment of boy toys for a young single executive. His bank records were not accessible without a warrant.
Luke found several citations for inaccurate shipping declarations, but no indictments or sanctions on the company. The records for MLC were on par with other freight companies. Angela began looking into records about Michael Curran, Eric’s father. Luke contacted the Federal Attorney’s office for warrants to search Eric’s home and bank records then he contacted the Cary PD asking for Chief Stoner.
“This is Stoner.”
“Chief, this is FBI Agent Gallagher, we met this morning.”
“Hello Luke, how can I help you?”
“Chief, we’re going to get a federal warrant to search Curran’s house, probably tomorrow morning. Could you please have the place secured?”
“Sure, we’ll patrol there tonight.”
“Okay, that would be great. By the way, did the victim have any personal effects on him?”
The chief said Curran had a wallet, but no driver’s license or cell phone.
Late in the afternoon, the police and ME reports were faxed in. Luke and Angela read the reports, which did not contain any surprises. Curran had died from gunshot wounds, probably 9mm. The killer was a professional, yet mob hits usually left a warning or signature, and nothing was found. The victim’s driver’s license was taken to prove completion of the contract.
Late in the evening they were both tired, so Angela drove Luke to the METRA station.
Country Club
Peter Shields had chosen to be a drifter with no plan for the future. He barely made a living, and didn’t need much. He was healthy, standing a bit over six one with a lean body honed over years of endless physical training. Even after six months away from the Army, he was more fit than other civilians. Most days, he wore old jeans and one of dozens of memorable tee shirts stuffed in his travel bags. He still had a boyish complexion with quick green eyes and light brown hair that he kept short through habit. He seldom talked to anyone and preferred outdoor physical labor.
Generally, he was at peace with himself although disoriented occasionally by the choices he’d made over the past year. He spent months prior to leaving the service in therapy and self-induced isolation trying to rationalize his chosen career as a Ranger against his feeling that the Army had abandoned him at his most critical time. He knew it wasn’t fair to indict the Army, but faith in fellow soldiers was key to the profession, and he’d seen the faith betrayed, causing all of his men to die. He did not want to face it again.
He understood his depression and disillusionment, but didn’t see any value in the psychological treatment offered to him while in the Army. He’d served for twelve years and was conflicted about leaving an unfinished career. After completing his first enlistment, he’d eagerly re-up’ed, joining the legions of “lifers” that formed the nucleus of the profession. He’d been out for six months and some of his reasons for quitting were fading. He was more than half done with his basic twenty for retirement, and just walked away from it all. He still hadn’t talked to his parents about it and didn’t have any civilian friends, or a girl. So, most nights, he questioned his situation, but was powerless to find any motivation to reverse the course he was on. Months earlier, he’d b
een sitting on his bunk in a room at the BOQ at the Special Operations Command at MacDill AFB, looking down at his running shoes, still questioning the decision to resign his commission. Then he stood uneasily, said goodbye to some buddies, threw all his possessions into his Ford Explorer, and drove away as a civilian.
Before the last year of his career, he’d done things that few people would ever experience in life. He felt immensely satisfied and had made a difference protecting America. Sometimes he felt like the most stupid individual on earth by leaving it all behind. Who walks out on a successful Army career after twelve years? After refusing his last promotion, he just packed his belongings in the back of his truck and drove off the base.
He had no destination except to stay away from his hometown in Pennsylvania. If anyone had asked him why he left, he could not have explained it. He felt more uncertain about the future than high school kids at graduation. He didn’t call his parents and had no plan to see them any time soon. His military lifestyle had always interfered with his personal life, so he didn’t have any romantic relationship to think about. Driving north past the Ocala horse farms along Interstate 75 several hours later, he was tempted to take the off-ramp and look for