by James Hunt
When she was younger, Lacey White promised herself that she would get as far away from her shitty little Florida town as she possibly could. She knew that if she stayed, her best-case scenario would be a future of working odd shifts at a local bar and marrying a man who wasn’t a mean drunk.
So, she’d studied, done well in school, and when it came to apply for colleges, she was accepted into the University of Florida on a full ride. Then after graduation, she applied for every news station position on the West Coast, save for Alaska. She’d fuck lazy-eyed Gary before she’d ever move to Alaska. But as fate would have it, she’d landed a job for KVLR Channel 9 News in Seattle.
Lacey read through the spiel that she put together this morning before the sun came up. This was the first chance at a story she’d been given that didn’t involve a fair, marketplace, or installation of a new traffic light.
It was a classic case of gentrification, the rich pushing out the poor in the name of progress. The poor always had the same plight. The rich always had the same defense.
It would run as a headline for a few cycles, and then burn out when both sides realized that the issue was going to end the same way it had always done: with the rich getting their way.
But Lacey had put effort into the story. It might have been a well-worn story, but it still had some meat to it. And she was starving for anything she could sink her teeth into.
“You ready, Lacey?” Gary asked.
Lacey applied a few last-minute touches, and then snapped her compact mirror shut. “It rains in summer, and then it’s freezing in winter?” She sniffled and hoped that her nose wasn’t too red and found her mark in front of a new row of apartment buildings being set. “Is it ever not miserable in this fucking city?”
Gary offered a friendly smile. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. We have our good days.” He heaved the camera onto his shoulder and then had his one good eye peer through the video display. “Feed’s good, and we’re on in five, four, three, two, one.” He pointed at her, and Lacey flashed that winning pageant smile that had landed her the job despite having to deny the station manager’s advances.
“I’m north of downtown Seattle at the site of a new and controversial row of apartments where city officials have just broken ground.” Lacey walked along the old and crumbling buildings, gesturing to the eviction notices taped onto the doors. “Local residents were given thirty days to relocate, and city officials are making resources available to help with those relocation efforts.” She stopped walking and turned back to the camera, gripping the mic with both hands. “However, the residents I managed to speak with said that the notices were delivered late, and that efforts to contact those resources have not led to anyone being placed into a new home. Many residents have decided to stay, which would force the city to remove these residents before new construction can begin. And despite the uncertainty of their future, the citizens I spoke to all had the same unified message. We’re not going anywhere. I’m Lacey White, Channel 9 News.”
Lacey held the smile and waited for the camera light to turn off and the producer in her ear to tell her she was clear before she lowered her microphone and dropped the smile.
“That was good,” Gary said, rotating the shoulder that held the camera, and then winced as he walked back to the van. “This thing gets heavier every year.”
Lacey plucked the device from her ear and hopped into the passenger seat of the van. She rested her head back against the seat and gazed at the skyline of downtown, wishing she’d been given the police headquarters assignment.
Whatever was happening there was big, but instead of being in the middle of the action where she could have the most impact, she was stuck on the back burner. She wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of something on the breeze. She glanced back to Gary, who was still fiddling with his camera. “How much longer? This place is starting to clog my pores.”
“Not long,” Gary said.
Not long stretched for another twenty minutes, and then Gary dropped her off at her apartment on his way back to the station. The pair had worked together for the past eight months, and she had just been waiting for the inevitable moment when he tried to make a pass at her. She figured now would be the time and braced herself to have to let him down easy, because even bruising the ego of a lowly cameraman could come back to bite her in the ass.
“Good work today,” Gary said, smiling as he shifted the van into park.
“Thanks,” Lacey said. “You too.”
“Imagine what I could do if both worked.” Gary pointed to his lazy eye and laughed. “I’m surprised they even let me drive.”
Lacey frowned, and Gary tried to correct himself.
“I mean, I’m perfectly capable of driving.” Gary cleared his throat. “Accident-free.”
An unexpected laugh bubbled up from inside Lacey. A real one. Not the fake laugh that she used on-air or with her bosses. “Good to know.” Lacey opened the door and then looked back to Gary. “I’ll see you back at the station at ten.” She slammed the door shut and walked like she was balancing on a tightrope in her heels on her way inside the building.
The tiny studio cost her two grand a month, and after paying for rent, make-up, and clothes for her on-air persona, there wasn’t much left for anything else, limiting the furnishing of the studio to what she had dragged from her room in college.
Lacey opened the fridge, forgetting that she still hadn’t gone to the grocery store, finding nothing but three-day old leftover Chinese and a beer. She shrugged, reaching for the beer and leaving the Chinese food. “People drink at brunch.”
Lacey popped the cap and collapsed onto the tiny love seat that she’d hauled all the way from Gainesville at her college apartment. The thing was old, and ugly as sin, but she had yet to relax on a more comfortable sofa in her entire life. She’d never get rid of that couch.
Lacey finished the beer and then lay down, her body the perfect length to rest her calves on the arm rest at the other end comfortably, staring up at the white popcorn-covered ceiling.
Seven different cracks ran along the ceiling, and that was just directly above her. A few of them leaked when it rained. When she told her landlord about it, he had said that he’d fix it next week.
That was four months ago.
Lacey rubbed her eyes, remembering that all of this was only temporary. She wasn’t going to be stuck in a shitty apartment forever. She wasn’t going to be covering dumb stories forever. She was just starting out, and she was already making good progress. She was the youngest field reporter at the station, and she had just gotten her foot in the door with a lead at the mayor’s office.
Lacey checked her phone. She had just enough time for a nap before she had to head back and finish the package for the twelve o’clock news, but her rest was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Lacey frowned. In the eight months she’d lived in Seattle, she had never had a single visitor. And any time she met a guy and chose to sleep with him, it was always at his place.
It helped ensure that she could shrug off stalkers, and it also confirmed whether or not they were telling the truth about being single.
Lacey peeked through the peephole and saw a delivery man. She unlocked the door, but only cracked it open. She’d done enough research to know how predators had gotten creative with abductions.
But the UPS driver kept his attention on the device in his hand, the box tucked under his arm, and then extended the small digital display toward Lacey. “Sign here, please.”
With no triggers of alarm bells, Lacey opened the door all the way and signed for the package. The driver handed it over to her, keeping his face on the screen the entire time during their interaction.
“Have a good day,” he said, and then disappeared down the hall.
Balancing the box awkwardly in her hands, Lacey locked the door and walked over to the couch, setting the package down. She hadn’t bought anything online, seeing as how she had no money.
; “Okay then.” Lacey grabbed a pair of scissors and cut through the top of the box. She shoved the Styrofoam innards aside and found a note taped to the top of another box nestled amongst the packaging peanuts. The note had her name written on the outside, the cursive neat and legible. She opened it to see a handwritten note.
“Dear Lacey,
Inside you’ll find information relating to a former Seattle Detective that I think you’ll find quite interesting. More to come. Happy hunting.”
Lacey checked for a signature, but she found none, and figured it must be from her contact in the mayor’s office.
Excited, Lacey opened the package and cast the note aside, plopping down on the couch. In addition to a large file, there were folders that contained pictures of crime scenes, along with a separate USB drive.
Lacey reached for the file first, which was a thick administrative file from the Seattle Police Department. She opened the first page and saw the picture of a young, handsome officer in his dress blues.
“And who are you?” Lacey tapped her nail against the officer’s nose and then ran her finger down to the name listed. “Hello, Chase Grant.”
26
Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the entrance to the men’s bathroom in the bus building’s annex. Evidence markers dotted the areas where blood splatter had landed from the victim’s attack, and a photographer snapped pictures of Jimmy Shanahan who lay face down, the top half of his body protruding from the bathroom stall, stripped down to his underwear, his scalp removed from his skull.
Grant stood behind the yellow tape as he watched Mocks place a small round device left by the body and into a plastic evidence bag. She glanced down at Shanahan one last time, and then pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and stepped out of the bathroom.
“Knifed twice,” Mocks said. “Both along the rib cage. He bled out. Time of death is between one and two hours ago. We won’t know for sure if Pullman scalped him before or after he was dead until the examiner has a look at him.” She handed Grant the evidence bag. “This was the only thing on him besides his personal items.”
Grant peeled his eyes away from the victim, thoughts of Mary Sullivan lingering in his head, and he wondered if her quick death was more merciful than the slow bloodletting that Jimmy Shanahan had experienced. “What about the bus?”
Mocks leaned back against the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. “Bus went through all of the stops and the kids arrived on time at school this morning. I’ve got Lane checking to make sure the school isn’t missing anyone.” She cocked her jaw to the side, biting her lower lip. “He drove over forty kids around and no one batted an eyelash.”
Grant examined the evidence in the plastic bag. It was a small, round device and resembled some of the transponders that they’d found in Barry Finster’s apartment, along with the radio equipment used to construct the bombs for the Sullivan family. “We should match these up with the electronics we found at Finster’s apartment.”
Mocks pushed off the wall and headed toward the door, Grant following. “I get killing the bus driver, but why take the bus? He’s never killed a kid before.” She shouldered the door open and headed toward the car in the parking lot. “And even though Susie Mullins was abducted, it was Waffer who actually did it.”
Grant paused at the passenger side door of the car and examined the small transponder in the bag. “I don’t know.”
Mocks ducked into the car and started the engine as Grant climbed inside. She reached for the radio and had dispatch put her back through to the office, requesting to speak with Detective Lane, who had been their team lead during the investigation to locate the Missing Persons from yesterday. “All the kids accounted for on that bus?”
“All but one, Lieutenant.” Lane cleared his throat. He sounded congested. “Harold Brockwater’s son. As in Judge Harold Brockwater. The man who sentenced Dennis Pullman to life in prison.”
Grant and Mocks exchanged a glance before Mocks shifted into drive and flipped the cruiser lights. Grant took the radio handle from Mocks. “Give me the judge’s address.” Grant pulled out his phone and typed it into the GPS.
“Lane, I want the closest available unit headed toward Brockwater’s house immediately to secure the area,” Mocks said. “But they do not engage. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The request went out over the radio, a unit responding within a few seconds as Mocks headed for the highway.
“I-5 will get us there fastest,” Grant said. “Brockwater lives in Bellevue.”
“Son of a bitch!” Mocks slapped the steering wheel.
The red and blue lights from Mocks’s Crown Vic flashed and parted traffic as they sped through the Seattle streets.
Mocks kept one hand on the wheel, but Grant saw in his peripheral that she kept glancing at him. “If you have any theories you’d like to share, then I’m listening.”
“What makes you think I have a working theory?” Grant asked.
“Because you’ve got your thinking face on,” Mocks answered. “You’ve furrowed your brow so hard the lines in your forehead have nearly become permanent.”
Grant turned from his view of the window, almost smiling. “Furrowed?”
Mocks shrugged. “I’ve been reading more.” She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”
Grant shifted in his seat and wiped his sweaty palms across his jeans. “He wants something from Brockwater.”
Mocks switched lanes, pulling around a semi-truck who was hogging the fast lane. “Leverage really isn’t Pullman’s style.”
“No, but his focus has always been control.” Grant tightened his grip on the hand rest as Mocks continued her manic pace through traffic.
Mocks rocked her head from side to side, that mind of hers moving faster than the car she drove. “So, Pullman wants to control Brockwater… why?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
The radio crackled in Mocks’s car, Dispatch informing them that a black and white was already on scene and reported no suspicious activity. Mocks grabbed hold of the radio. “We’re two minutes out. Tell them to hang tight.”
Bellevue housed most of the city’s well-to-do residents, which was located on the south side of the city.
Once in the neighborhood, the row of houses that they passed on the left were all of the same cookie cutter fashion and style. Every yard was immaculate, the sidewalks clean, the cars parked in the driveway totaling more than most people’s yearly salary. The neighborhood could have been a model for a Sam Rockwell painting.
Grant spotted the patrol car down the street as Mocks parked in Brockwater’s driveway, blocking his car.
Mocks radioed the unit nearby. “Any confirmation he’s home?”
“Negative, Lieutenant.”
“After we go to the door, I want one of you to head around back, make sure no one takes off running.”
“Copy that.”
Mocks flapped her jacket, exposing the shoulder holster and 9mm Glock. “You ready?”
Grant nodded, and Mocks took the lead on their way out of the car and toward the house. She knocked on the massive oak door three times and then stepped back, gripping the pistol in its holster.
Grant kept his eyes on the windows. All the curtains had been drawn. It wasn’t unusual, but on a cloudy day like this, it wasn’t necessarily needed. When the door opened, his attention was pulled there.
Judge Harold Brockwater opened the door all the way, using his body to block the entrance. The forty-five-year-old widower maintained a healthy physique, but his full head of white hair aged him an additional fifteen years. “Can I help you— Excuse me!”
Mocks barged into the house, shouldering past the judge and drawing her weapon as she checked the corners, Grant filing behind her with his own weapon drawn. With no immediate danger present, she spun back around to the judge.
“I’m Lieutenant Susan Mullocks with the Missing Persons Division in Seattle’s Eighteenth precinct.” Mocks flashed the ba
dge as a courtesy. “Is your son here?”
Brockwater’s face flushed red. “What is the meaning of this? Of course my son is here, he’s upstairs in bed, sick!” He glanced at the pistols. “Put those away!”
The news of Brockwater’s son eroded some of Grant and Mocks’s urgency, and they lowered their pistols.
“We contacted the school this morning and they said he wasn’t in class,” Mocks said.
“I’ve been busy and haven’t had a chance to call them.” Brockwater shut the door and crossed his arms. “Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Sir, your son’s school bus driver was found dead this morning,” Mocks answered. “He was stabbed twice, and the person who killed him then proceeded to drive the school bus’s route.”
Brockwater’s stern expression slackened. “What?”
“The story has not fully broken yet, but I think it’s important for you to know that Dennis Pullman escaped from prison last night,” Mocks said. “We believe he was the individual who murdered your son’s bus driver.”
Grant studied the judge’s face and watched the color drain from his cheeks, his expression stoic as he realized exactly what Grant had thought on the way over.
Brockwater frowned, the thunder in his voice quieting to a raspy whisper. “You think Pullman was after my son?”
“It’s the only connection we can think of for why he’d get on that bus,” Mocks said.
Brockwater took a deep breath and then paused for a moment, his nostrils flaring when he finally exhaled.
“Right now, we’re just trying to eliminate any potential threats,” Mocks said. “Have you noticed anything strange happening around the house? Any odd calls, or letters in the mail?”
“No. Nothing.” Brockwater sucked in his lower lip, perspiration dotting his forehead.