“Detective Maddox should actually be here any minute.” I looked at my watch. “But we can go around the room for whatever needs clarification with what we’ve just gone over.”
“So, after finding the truck, are we thinking that he’s headed out of town?” SSA Sajak asked. Sajak looked about fifty with a thick mustache, bald head, and stocky build.
“No way to know,” I said. “All we know is that was where the truck was found.”
“And our chances of getting anything from the truck are pretty much nil,” Beth added.
ASAC Arquette scratched at the side of his short gray hair. “Do we know for certain that he’s not holed up somewhere in that area?”
“Nope,” Beth said. “But there are only a handful of properties around where the truck was dumped, and the local sheriff’s office made contact at each.”
“I think there was something like seven homes,” I said. “All checked out. But the guys up there said they were going to focus patrols on the area. The sergeant that we met up there said he’d make sure every last person in his office was familiar with Burr’s face and was actively looking for him.”
“He said that he was going to have his guys showing Burr’s face around. Mentioning the reward for information leading to capture. That kind of stuff,” Beth added.
“So, everything that we got relating to the Lost Souls and the Iron Mug came from an inmate who overheard something being said between Leland Walters and Charles Burr?” SSA Sajak asked.
“That’s basically it,” I said.
“And this Leland is the brother of the woman who owns the Iron Mug bar?”
“Correct,” Beth said.
“Our two other agents who were in Louisiana will be here in a few hours,” I said. “They’d be able to speak further on what they got from the inmate who was talking, but the gist of it is that he said Leland Walters told Burr to go to Waco, to the bar, if he ever escaped and needed help. Something along those lines. And we’ve got a bar owned by his sister in Waco.”
“Did you guys see anything out of the ordinary at this bar overnight?” Sajak held two fingers out at Agents Comley and Carroll.
“It was pretty quiet,” Comley said.
“LaFleur reported in a handful of times today. A couple people have come and gone, but none resembling Burr,” Disick said. “Now, we have a few other properties that are owned by various others in this club. Detective Maddox over at the local PD is familiar with this crew. Says they have a bike shop that also doubles as the chapter’s clubhouse, and a plot of land outside of town that has a couple trailers on it.”
“Are we going to try to look into any of that?” Sajak asked.
“Detective Maddox said he was going to put a file together for us on some of these club members, addresses for properties, etcetera.”
“Our goal with these properties and people is what?” ASAC Arquette asked. “We think these guys are sheltering Burr, or were?”
“We’re just trying to find someone who knows something,” Beth said. “Burr has been in a hundred-mile-or-so radius for days. Why is he hanging around?”
Her question didn’t fetch a response.
“The only lead we have to answer that question has to do with this bar,” she said. “Even if Burr has already moved on, if he was getting help from someone in Waco, I’m guessing that it was someone having to do with the motorcycle club and bar that Leland Walters’s sister owns.”
Arquette nodded, seeming to get what he was looking for.
A woman, whom I recognized from the front desk of the resident agency, knocked on the door, and when SSA Sajak waved her in through the window, she poked her head into the room. “There’s a Detective Maddox and another officer here.”
“Send them in,” Sajak said.
She left the doorway, and a moment later, Maddox walked into the room with a uniformed officer in tow. Disick introduced Maddox to everyone. The uniformed officer that he’d brought with him was James Sosa. Maddox said that Sosa was probably more familiar with the club than anyone at the department. The guys sat, and we briefly went over what we’d just been talking about. Maddox had brought some duplicate file folders. I paged through them, finding a handful of guys’ rap sheets and some street view photos of the bar, what I figured was the bike shop, and a big fenced-in field with trailers in the distance.
I paged through the rap sheets. “You’ve got some history with these guys?” I asked Sosa.
He nodded. “I’ve known a couple of them since we were young. We went to school together. Never really friends and obviously went different ways entering adulthood, but there’s some history there, yeah. Plus, I take my bike to them to get work done.”
“This is the bike shop here?” I held out the piece of paper with the photo of a white cinder block building surrounded by a chain-link privacy fence. The tops of some outbuildings located behind the fence could be seen above the fence line.
“That’s their shop. Cheapest place in town—good work too. They know I’m a cop, but they also know that I’m not there to bind them up, just to get whatever I need done on my bike. They do it, and I’m on my way.”
“What’s behind the fence?” I asked.
“There’s a pole shed near the back of the lot, where they do all the work on the bikes. Other than that, it’s mostly just random junk and little outbuildings, storage sheds, and old cars. Some of the cars look like they’re in the middle of getting fixed up, and some look like they’re just rotting away. There’s a pair of old RVs parked in there too. I think someone’s living in one of them. Obviously, there are motorcycles everywhere. Some running, some not. Huge racks filled with used parts from bikes that had been torn down. Old wheels, fuel tanks, that kind of stuff.”
“Sounds like a junkyard,” I said.
“That’s really not too far from accurate,” Sosa said.
“What about the main building here?” I tapped my finger on the photo. “What’s inside?”
“There’s a small office for the business in the front, and then the clubhouse is in the back. I’ve only been led through the clubhouse area once or twice, so I can’t say for certain what all’s back there, but the main area is pretty slick. It’s set up like a private bar. And I mean there’s an actual bar in it—fully stocked. Then there’s a pair of pool tables, a jukebox, some dart boards, neon bar signs everywhere, a stage, a pole for dancers. Some couches and TVs. It’s nice.”
“Know anything about the land with the trailers?” Beth asked, stopping Sosa’s fangirling about the clubhouse.
He shook his head. “I know where it is but not who lives there or any of that.”
“And the bar?” she asked.
“I’ve been called out there a handful of times. Usually for people fighting outside. Someone driving past will see a scuffle and call it in. Can’t say that I recall hearing of a call coming from the bar itself, though. And it doesn’t seem like anything ever happens inside.”
“What about the gang?” I asked. “What can you tell us about them?”
“Probably not much more than you already know, honestly,” Sosa said. “Like I said, I went to school with a couple of the guys from the club back in the day. Al Boyle and Peter Brooks. They’re the same guys that I take my bike to. I know a couple of the other guys by face and name—see them riding around town. It’s never more than a nod hello and goodbye kind of a thing. I’ve busted a couple of the guys over the years for holding, disorderlies, fighting, DUIs.”
“Who’s in charge of the chapter around here?” I asked. “A president or whatever? Maybe someone we can go to directly?”
Sosa shook his head. “No official hierarchy that I know of. But I think that’s probably by design.”
“How’s that?” Beth asked.
“Law enforcement can’t target who’s in charge if they don’t know who’s in charge,” he said.
It made sense. “If you had to guess who’s running things around here?” I asked.
“Je
rry Walters, or she’s a front for one of the guys who’s always around her,” he said.
“The word that came through to us was that her brother was some kind of leader or president or something,” I said. “Guess he was in Laredo, though. Could have been he was leading up one chapter down there and his sister was running some kind of related operation up here.”
“Maybe she was laundering cash for him through her businesses,” Beth said.
“Could have been that too,” I said. “Maybe we’ll try to contact her. Feel things out. What about violence with these guys?”
“I can’t say any of them are choir boys, but I don’t think they’ll just start shooting if we show up to ask a couple questions,” Sosa said. “At least not at the shop or bar. They’re places of business. My guess would be they say nothing other than asking you to leave or produce a subpoena or warrant. If you want, I can go with you guys over to the bike shop. Maybe if they see a familiar face, and I preface you being there, we may have better luck.”
“If you think something like that will work,” I said.
“I think it’ll work better than a bunch of unknown federal agents showing up unannounced asking questions,” Sosa said. “But that’s the bike shop. I don’t know how you want to approach the bar or the property outside of town. I don’t have any familiarity with anyone at either of those places.”
“Let’s just start with the bike shop,” I said. “You can go in with us there, and I guess we’ll just have to go in cold at the other spots. See what we get.”
“I think it would be smart to have eyes on each location before first contact is made,” Maddox said. “Not that we get someone running from somewhere we’re not.”
“Yeah.” I agreed with the idea. “All right. Let’s figure out how we’re doing this and get after it.”
“Are you trying to go and ruffle some feathers right away?” Maddox asked.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Whether Burr is hanging around one of these places, still in the area, or was on his way out of town when he dumped and torched the truck this morning, the sooner we get on his tail the better.” I got another look at my watch—almost four o’clock. “Do we know the bar hours today? The bike shop hours?”
“Um, I think the shop closes around five. The bar should be open all night,” Sosa said.
“Okay. Bike shop first. We’ll go from there,” I said.
Chapter 27
We put together the simplest plan we could muster—I usually found simpler to be better. Sosa would join Beth and me at the clubhouse. Maddox was parked up the block with eyes on the place. Disick had gone to the bar and met up with LaFleur, who was already in position. Comley and Carroll had taken two cars and driven out toward the plot of land that we learned was owned by a guy named Stewart Mayfield. They’d parked along the side of the road, a half mile north and south of the property entrance. Anyone coming or going would need to pass one of them.
Sosa, driving in front of us, made a right off the street and into the connecting parking lot of the bike shop. The rusting metal sign attached to the exterior of the white cinder block single-story building read Steel City Cycles.
“Is Maddox just going to watch from back there?” Beth pulled up beside Sosa’s cruiser in the parking lot of the bike shop and shifted the rental car into Park.
Maddox, who’d been following us, had pulled to the side of the road about a block back.
“Yeah, he’ll hang out after we wrap up and see if anyone takes off after we leave,” I said. “And then give some pursuit if someone does. We’ll do the same routine over at the bar.” I unclipped my seat belt and pushed open the passenger-side door. Sosa was already standing outside the driver’s door of his cruiser.
“Y’all just want to follow me in?” he asked.
“That’s fine.” I pointed at the business’s front door.
Beth and I followed Sosa to the front door and went in after him. Sosa pulled off the campaign hat that he wore and tucked it under his arm. We’d stepped into a small showroom and sales floor of the bike shop. The floor was black-and-white checkerboard, not unlike the diner we’d been in two days before. Some exhaust systems were on display on the right wall. Motorcycle rims and accessories were to our left. Racks of clothing—black T-shirts and leather for the most part—filled stands in the center of the room. A pair of classic bikes were on display to the left and right of a long display case straight ahead. From the looks of things, and the two guys and woman standing behind the case and staring at us, the case doubled as the main customer counter. My eyes locked on the dark-haired woman covered in tattoos—Gerrianne Walters.
I wasn’t expecting to see her and had even thought about possibly not going into the bar on the chance she was there and recognized me. What the outcome of her recognizing me would be, who knew, but we were about to find out, as it was a little late for me to do a one-eighty and head for the door. Ms. Walters held a clipboard and seemed to be checking things off with a pen. I glanced at the guys who stood beside her. Both looked to be in their forties. One of the guys was about six foot and had to be four hundred pounds. The other was short and of average build. Black gauges about the size of nickels were punched into each of the smaller guy’s earlobes, and tattoos covered his arms and neck. I’d seen the guy before, in the bar the other night. He was another person who could recognize me.
“Afternoon.” Sosa reached the counter.
Beth and I stood to Sosa’s right.
“Officer Sosa,” the larger of the two guys said.
“Timmy,” Sosa said.
“What can we do for ya?” Timmy asked. “I don’t imagine this is something for the bike.”
Gerrianne Walters handed the clipboard to the smaller guy, and he disappeared into the back. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at us. While I saw her look at me, it seemed more of a glance than anything.
“We’re actually looking to speak with Ms. Walters here,” Sosa said.
She scoffed. “I can’t imagine for what.”
“It should only take a minute,” Sosa said.
She let out a breath and shook her head. The headshake seemed more of annoyance than a refusal. “About a minute, is it? You know that patrol car out front is going to pretty much guarantee we don’t get any business so long as it’s parked there.”
“We’ll be in and out as soon as we can,” Sosa said.
She planted herself on a stool behind the counter and told Timmy to check on the bike of someone named Dean. He left to do as asked, leaving Gerrianne Walters alone at the counter with us.
“Well,” she said. “What do you want? Who are these two?” She pointed. “They smell like feds.”
“Agents Beth Harper and Hank Rawlings,” Beth said.
“Dang,” she said. “It’s like I’m a psychic or something.”
“You’re Gerrianne Walters?” I asked.
“Just Jerry. But yeah.”
Nothing in her face said she’d recognized me. The bar had been dark, and she’d been a good thirty feet or so away for the entirety of my stay there.
“Do you own this store?” Beth asked. “Shop, whatever you want to call it.”
“It’s a family business.” She turned her attention to Beth.
We hadn’t been aware that she owned more than just the bar.
“So that’s a yes?” Beth asked.
“Look, what do you want? I’m starting to get really short on time.”
Sosa looked at me to field the question.
“We’re looking for information on Charles Burr. Chuck Burr,” I said. “You may have seen him on the news.”
“Escaped convict. Killed a couple people. Yeah, I saw him on the TV,” she said. “Why the hell would you think that you can find information on that guy here?”
“Your brother Leland was friends with him in prison,” I said.
“Um, okay. That’s news to me. But either way, how does who my brother chooses to be friends with inside have anythi
ng to do with me?”
“We have reason to believe that your brother sent Burr to the area,” Beth said.
“Why? Leland never lived in Waco.”
“To maybe get help from your club,” I said.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Leland would be out of his damned mind if he thought I, or we”—she made a circle in the air with her finger—“would help some escaped con. I’ve got a pair of legitimate businesses in town that create a livable income for me and the club. We put on fundraisers. We do charitable work. Organize donations for the local schools. I bust ass and probably put in eighty hours a week. But yeah, I’m going to take some time out of all that to help some escaped idiot my brother was supposedly friends with inside.”
Nobody had a response.
“Look, Leland and I aren’t that close for starters. Never have been. The last time I talked to him was about two years ago, and we weren’t on the best of terms then.”
“The issue?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Why you weren’t on the best of terms.”
“None of your business. Anyway, if I did keep regular contact with Leland and we were on good terms, why the hell would he send some crazed killer to his little sister?”
She did have a point and made a rather convincing case with the rest of her pitch, yet I’d been around the block enough times to generally not believe anyone’s word for anything. I brought up a photo of the truck on my phone and held it out toward her.
“Ever see this truck?” I asked.
She leaned forward, squinted as she had a look, and nodded. “Yup. On the television.”
“Not in person?” I asked.
“No, not in person. I told you, I haven’t seen the guy, and you’re barking up the wrong tree asking about him around here.”
“We’re just checking off all the boxes,” Beth said.
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