by B. A. Savage
“Or perhaps she’s a hooker?” Karen asked.
French nods.
He spent the next three hours examining the study where the body was found. “Karen, come here, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She said, sticking her head through the door.
“What did you first notice about this room?”
Her eyes scanned the room from left to right, ceiling to floor twice to make sure she didn’t miss anything.
“I don’t see anything, Mister French. I guess just another room.”
French raised his hand and slapped it hard on the chair; a cloud of dust raised and drifted in the air like a ghost.
"He didn't dust much, did he?" She muttered.
"You're right, Karen. The room is covered with dust. It looks like this place hasn't been cleaned for months. Let's go home; we're finishes here.”
"So, what we find out?"
French shrugged. “I found a few clues. However, I’ll know more after making a few phone calls.”
“You mean to tell me we spent over three hours here for a few clues?"
“Well, I did find out one thing. I know how the killer did it.”
The pickup roared down Center Parkway as Karen tried to keep it under control, and the two cars moved in closer.
French jumped onto the truck bed, ramming his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending backward onto his rear.
“Alex, look out,” Karen screamed.
French dropped down in the bed of the truck as Karen slammed on the brakes. The first car made a sharp turn to the right; the tires hitting a curb with enough force to send the car tumbling into a building.
Karen put the car in gear and stomps the gas, the wheels spinning, and the truck speed forward. The man reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a knife. He is launching forward with the knife over his head. But French was too fast; he smashes the heel of his left foot into the man’s stomach, sending him backward over the tailgate. His neck snapped as he lands, and the driver of the first car drives over his skull, crushing his skull into paste.
Karen didn’t stop for the light, cutting the curve into the route of a four wheeler.
The bullets soared like mad Hornets through the air.
“Don’t you have a gun in here somewhere?” Karen said, digging through the glove compartment.
“No, but behind the passenger, seat should be a flare gun.”
Karen pulled it out, “A flare gun, Mister French? Those guys are trying to kill us! We don’t have time send up a signal to the National Guard.”
French opened the tool box fixed in the truck’s bed, removing three shells and slid one in the chamber. “During World War I, it was rumored that a German plane was destroyed when a flare gun was shot into the cockpit.”
“Mister French, we don't have the time to talk just shoot them, damn it.”
The car moved up on the driver side as Karen looked over to see a man aiming his gun through the window, preparing to fire.
French threw a jack handle at the window, smacking the gunman in the face. He screamed, raising the gun over his head, releasing several rounds into the ceiling. The driver loses control a moment and within a second, was back on the pickup’s bumper.
French and Karen ducked as the bullets whizzed through the cab, in one window and out the other.
French sat up, firing the flare gun at the men. The man hanging out the window pulled back to avoid being hit. Another man opened fire through the rear window, shattering the remaining brake lights on the tailgate.
Suddenly, French pops to his feet in the pickup bed. He leveled the flare gun in one fluid motion and blasted a missile into the shooter’s chest.
The gunman stops firing, and the driver tried zigzagging the red pickup and slams into a light pole, his car erupting into flames.
Karen shifted to low gear as a jeep swung curved the corner with a gunman popping off slugs from the passenger side. Karen tries to outrun the jeep, but the pickup truck just didn’t have the guts.
Karen sees the shooter zooming closer to the truck to shoot at French, and jerks the wheel to the left.
The pickup truck weaves toward the jeep, and the driver has to back off.
French shoots at the man hanging out the passenger window, the slug sparkling off the hood, but missing the shooter.
“Hold on,” Karen screams. She fanned the brakes to turn the wheel quickly, to make a sharp corner.
The Jeep comes up on the side the truck.
“Here they come, Mister French. If you have any ideas, we need them now.”
The shooter unleashes five rounds at the pickup, blowing out the left front tire.
Karen tries to stay in the road, almost losing French from the truck as he fights to keep his balance.
“Who taught you how to drive?”
“I cannot stand a smart ass," Karen muttered. “I’m battling a bad tire, would you please shoot something, throw something, or do something.”
French Rose to find his target.
The shooter displayed an evil smile and lowering the pistol at French’s chest, squeezed the trigger.
“My God, what are you doing?” Karen screamed.
French hits the floor as bullets fly overhead. French comes up again the shooter squares off for another shot, and the chamber clicks empty.
French pulled a black tarp from out of the tool box and tossed it over the jeep window.
The man is driving the jeep blind. The tarp completely covers the front windshield. The shooter dropped his gun and grabs at the tarp, trying to tear it from the window.
French comes up with the flare gun and fires the slug straight into the middle of the window and the inside of the jeep lights up like a Christmas tree. The driver loses control of the steering wheel, driving over the road to a forty-foot drop.
Karen slowed to a stop. French jumped out of the truck and ran at the end of the road. He slowly moves down the steep hillside the drop. However, the heat from the fire was overwhelming. Karen watched in fear as the men screamed for God, and the fire consumed their bodies.
“That’s a horrible way to die.”
French shrugged. “I know, Karen. I know.”
Chapter 13
French and Karen spend the next eight hours answering questions at the police department. Karen was upset because it was like they were the criminals.
“That’s it, you bastards; I want an attorney, and I want him now,” she screamed. “You have no right keeping me here. I want to see Alex French, and I want to see him now.”
Emerson slid back the metal chair, shut the file, and left the room without saying another word. He walked out the door to see Green and Cutter standing by the door.
“Well, what do you think, Detective?” Chief Green asked.
“I think they’re telling the truth. I believe someone was trying to kill them. I believe these guys were professional killers, and I also believe they don’t know who they were or why they were trying to kill them.”
Green turned to Cutter. “What about you, what do you think?”
Cutter shrugged. “Sir, it would take a week for two people to rehearse a lie this good. I agree with Emerson. We don’t have anything to these two, and the D.A. is pissed. I think we had better let them go.”
Green snapped, “The hell with the D.A.; they're over fifty thousand dollars in damage, and six dead bodies littering my streets. That bastard doesn’t have to answer the taxpayers; we do. What’s wrong? Are his panties too tight because we have his glory boy? He’s broken the law, and I want you two to get something on him.”
“Well, sir, my hands are tied.” Cutter said, “District Attorney Van Dyke is waiting outside your office.”
“Damnit!" Green yelled as he was walking into the elevator.
“Good evening, Chief,” Van Dyke said, extending manicured hands across the desk.
The chief took his hand and nodded. “What can I do for you, Van Dyke?”
“Why are you still holding my
investigator?”
Green adjusts himself in his seat. “We are conducting an investigation and trying to get the facts straight.”
Van Dyke smiled. “What facts? My man told you what happened, and witnesses verify his story… what more do you need?”
Green clenched his teeth. “I said, I am trying to conduct an investigation. We are the police department and maintaining order is what we do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.” Green stands up and walks through the door.
“Sit down, Ben.”
Green turns to see a flame in the district attorney’s eyes. He started to protest but decided to remain silent.
“I don’t comprehend what the problem is with your detectives. But French is here as an investigator, working from my office, and now Karen is a D.A's support agent also. I'm sure you have trust and respect for your officers, and I expect the same respect for my people.”
“If that was one of my men, he would be in the police cross-examination room, responding to questions.”
“I'm not a nincompoop, Ben.” Van Dyke snapped, “If it were one of your men, you would be launching him a parade.” He sat back in his chair and straightened his silk tie. “This is what we were going to do. Alex French and Karen Day will not answer any more of your questions. I want them released and out of police custody in the next fifteen minutes, or I’ll guarantee you, you will be handling traffic until you retire.”
Green looked over Van Dyke, in his $900.00 silk suit, $200.00 silk tie, and $400.00 genuine lizard skin shoes. He was a good-looking little rich boy who never walked a beat or saw a whole family murdered by some glue-sniffing serial killer claiming his dog told him to do it. However, here he sits, and with the power of one phone call, he could end Green pension at the police department. He had the power to reduce Green’s $65,000.00 annual income to the $29,000.00 income of a traffic cop.
Green picked up the desk phone and jammed 032 into the dial tone. “Betty, tell Cutter to release French and Karen. I don’t give a damn what I told them, release these people now.” He slammed down the phone. "That’s all you want anything else, Mister Van Dyke?”
“Yes! If any harm comes to my investigators, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do? I can’t have my people babysitting French and that little girl. He’s an investigator who has made countless enemies over the years. He needs to get a gun, and learn how to use it for his protection. He needs a trained detective to assist on cases, not some dizzy young girl who learned all her investigating skills from watching Perry Mason. Cutting back on those doughnuts and spending four to five days each week in a gym wouldn’t hurt either.”
Cutter and Emerson walked into the room, laughing at the remark the chief had just made. “The only exercise French gets is trying to chase down the ice cream truck, every time he circles French’s block,” Emerson said, elbowing Cutter in the side.
“I heard that he couldn’t make it through the police academy because he’s too fat to do even three sit-ups.” Cutter said, slapping the D.A. on the shoulder. "Calm down, Van Dyke. We all know why you and French are so close. I heard he had a passion for cooking Hawaiian dishes, and your wife loves his cooking.”
Van Dyke nod.
“Yes, French is a perfect cook, a great dancer and good-hearted people, who would give his life to protect any man standing in this room. I know what the problem in this department is and it’s the same where ever my investigators work. You're afraid Alex French's going to walk into this department and do what no seasoned professional trained detective can, and that solve this case.”
Van Dyke eyes shifted around the room cutting off every smile with one glance.
“I have a little surprise for you boys,” Van Dyke announced. “French will solve this case and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it."
Green rose from his seat. “Let me give you a little classified information, Mister D.A. Someone broke into my office a few days ago and downloaded some case files from my computer, and I believe it was French. My officer is over at his house right now with a search warrant for his computer and laptop. If we find anything that will connect him with this break-in, he’ll be the new cook at a Kentucky State Prison. You know what? There’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Do you want to know why? My investigators are trained detective, not some glory boy.”
“I want you to do your job, and let Mister Alex French do his. I think we have an understanding?"
Ben nods.
"I've had enough of the games. We have an undercover cop’s murder to solve.” Van Dyke stood up and walked toward the door. “How’s your wife, Helen doing?”
“She’s doing great. How is your wife Nancy?”
Van Dyke smiled at the old chief. “She’s getting fat. It’s all the Hawaiian food French is cooking.”
“Give her our love.”
Van Dyke smiled and walked out the door.
Ben looks at Cutter.
"Has, Alex French and Karen been released?”
"They're processing the paperwork now.” Cutter said.
Green jumps up, pulls out his cell phone and walks down the hall.
“Steven I hope you found something?" He said urgently.
Cutter didn't like it when Chief Green frowned. It made him nauseous- especially to see Ben yelling at the officers because he was upset. However, he didn't dare to say anything about it. Ben had a wicked temper.
Green closed the cell phone and sat down grasping his ears.
“Well, did they find something?” Cutter asked.
Ben shook his head.
“They didn't get a chance to find anything. The Assistant District Attorney Bateman was there to make sure everything is done right.
"Steven didn't find anything to connect him to the break-in?” Emerson said.
“He found a manuscript of his next book. He didn't find any flash drive or any recent download to connect him to this office."
“Chief, what do you think French was looking for?” Cutter asked.
“I don’t know, gentlemen,” Green said, looking out the window.
Chapter 15
Susan was waiting for Alice and her dog Tony when Karen and French walked out of the police.
“Mama,” Alice yelled. “Are you and Mister French free?”
“What did your aunt Susan say?” Karen said turning to her sister.
“Aunt Susan said you and Mister Fry were arrested for beating up some bad guys. She said you were going to go to jail, and some hairy guy was going to make Mister French his wife.”
Karen looked at Susan, who gave her a polite smile.
Alice grabbed French’s hand, “Come on; Mister Fry. Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes, my dear, but we have to make one more stop.”
“They ripped the house apart, Karen. The Detectives were looking at something on your computer Mister French. However, the assistant D.A. showed up and made them leave.” Susan gave a reassuring smile.
“Karen, I’m sorry about what happened today. Usually, this work isn’t this critical, and I’m not sure this is what you should be doing.” French said.
“Are you kidding me?” Karen replied. “This is the course I have been preparing for all my life. My grandfather was the chief of police in Frankfort for 30 years. Our father was a lead detective in Woodford County for nineteen years.”
“Cop's blood runs through our family, Mister French,” Susan said.
“You're daddy still in the department?”
“They're both dead,” Karen said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’re not,” Susan added. “Father walked right in Pappy’s footsteps. They were narrow-minded, redneck, racist idiots who went to their grave hating everyone whose skin wasn’t white as snow.”
Alice told them everything Susan had said as they walked down North Broadway to the parking garage. Karen walked in front, Susan and Alice next, and French, f
ollowing buried in thought.
Susan, white Honda Accord was deemed to be big enough sit four. However, when French tried to squeeze into the car, it took Susan, Karen, Alice, and few barks from Tony, to get the seatbelt around his waist.
“What's our next move, Boss?"
“His name is Mister French?” Alice corrected.
“But that isn't what you call him. You call him Mister Fry and I like Fry better.”
“I can call him Mister Fry because he’s my friend, not yours,” Alice said, sticking out her tongue.
“Well, he is my friend, too,” Susan said.
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Children, children, please,” Karen said. “Enough.”
“Brat,” Susan said, sticking her tongue out.
“Whore,” Alice replied.
“Alice,” Karen said, looking at Susan, and the car erupted into laughter.
“We'll have to stop at Billy Heck's Costume Shop.”
“Why, Mister Fry? Are you going to buy a costume for Halloween?” Alice asked.
“No, my dear, I’m going to solve a murder.”
Chapter 16
It's nine o'clock Thursday evening, and one week after Carl Franklin’s body was discovered on Niagara Drive. An emergency call came into the Fayette County Police Department about shots being fired at 3616 Niagara Drive. Ben Green stepped through the door when his wife comes from the kitchen with the telephone in her hand.