Lieutenant Kane: Dedicated to Death 01-The First Shot

by EH Reinhard

  He coughed into the phone. “Are you who’s in charge?” he asked.

  “I’m the lead on this investigation, correct.”

  “Find out who did this to my wife and her son,” he said.

  I caught the fact that he’d referred to Michael as her son, but I let it go. “I intend to do everything in my power to bring the person or persons responsible to justice. I understand this has to be an extremely difficult time for you, but I’d like to try to get something scheduled to meet with you and go over some things.”

  “Can we just do it now?” he asked.

  “If you feel up to it,” I said.

  “Where do I need to go?”

  “The police station in downtown Tampa. It’s on North Franklin Street. Did you need directions?” I asked.

  “I’ll just look it up. I’m in the parking lot of the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Okay, you’re about ten minutes away from our station. I’m currently out of the office but can be back in about twenty minutes. How about I just meet you in the front lobby?”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  I heard him sniff before he hung up. I slipped my phone into my pocket and walked back into the house. I found Hank and Detective Jones in the master bedroom of the second level. Hank was using his pen to move items around, searching through the contents of the drawers in the dresser. Jones was holding a large clear evidence bag open while Rick was placing the lamp inside.

  “Hank,” I said.

  He turned and faced me.

  “I just got a call from Gretchen Ramey’s husband. He’s going to meet me at the station in about twenty minutes. Did you want to head back with me or stick around here and catch a ride with Jones?” I asked.

  “Did you need me for the interview?” Hank asked.

  “Not if you’re in the middle of something.”

  “I’ll grab a ride with Jones. I want to finish looking through these and then move on to some other areas of the house.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Come to my office when you get back.”

  “Yup,” Hank said and resumed his searching.

  “Call my cell or desk if you come up with anything, Rick.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  I left the house and got into the unmarked cruiser parked in the driveway. I backed out and drove from the neighborhood. Ten minutes of surface streets later, I pulled into our station’s parking structure and walked inside. I stopped at my office briefly and then headed downstairs for our lobby. I tried to see if I could see anyone through the safety glass of our secured door—there was no one there.

  I walked to Jenny—she was a twenty-something-year-old that held down our front window. When she wasn’t doing that, she helped with the office’s administrative tasks. Another girl named April alternated shifts with her, and when neither was available, someone else from the front office or patrol usually filled the void.

  “Has anyone come for me?” I asked.

  Jenny shook her head and tucked her blond hair behind her ear. “Hey, Lieutenant,” she said, spinning on her office chair toward me. “No guests for you. Expecting someone?”

  “Yeah, I would have thought he would have been here by now.” I pulled out my phone and brought up the call log. I’d talked to him twenty-two minutes earlier. While the ME’s office was only ten minutes away and he should have beat me to the station, I figured he could have been taking some time for himself. With him just having had to identify his murdered wife and stepson, I could afford him some additional time. “The guy that’s coming is named Randy Ramey. Husband of a homicide victim. If you could bring him up to my office when he gets here, that would be great.”

  “No problem, Kane,” Jenny said. “Need me to call first?”

  “Nah, that’s fine. Just bring him on up.”

  “You got it.”

  I left the front desk and took the stairs up to the third floor. I popped in by the captain to give him the highlights from the scene and told him that Ramey was coming in. He requested that I stop in to talk when I’d completed the interview.

  In my office, as I waited I organized some things on my desk and moved a couple of file boxes to the corner of the room—it was as neat as it was going to get without a full top-to-bottom cleaning and organization, which was something that I had been putting off for the better part of six months. I took a seat at my desk and woke up my computer. I went into my email and found the file that Captain Stephenson from Plant City had sent over. I opened it, briefly read over the contents, and printed off the statements of Mr. Ramey and the first responding officer. My printer in my office corner spit the sheets out a moment later. I rolled my desk chair out and was fetching them from the printer tray when the sound of knuckles tapping at my open office door came at my back.

  “Lieutenant, I have Mr. Ramey here,” Jenny said.

  I grabbed the papers and turned to see Jenny standing at my doorway with a dark-haired mid-forties man in jeans and a plaid shirt behind her.

  “Thanks, Jenny,” I said.

  She gave me a quick nod and walked off.

  “Mr. Ramey,” I said, walking toward him. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

  “Sorry, it took me a bit longer than expected,” he said.

  “No problem.” I shook his hand and pointed him to a guest chair.

  I took my seat across from him at my desk and arranged my papers in front of me. I clasped my hands on the surface of my desk. “Mr. Ramey, I’m sorry for your losses. Before we jump in, is there anything that I could get you? A coffee, water, soda?”

  “I’m fine for now, thanks,” he said. “I just want to do whatever I can.”

  “Okay,” I said. I took a moment to observe him, as I did when interviewing all significant others of homicide victims. His eyes were swollen and pink, and his nose looked a bit red—signs of crying and blowing his nose. His couple-of-inches-long dark hair looked a bit mussed, as though he’d been continually putting his hand through it. He smelled as if he’d just plowed through a pack of cigarettes.

  “I was in contact with Captain Stephenson from the Plant City PD earlier. He sent me what he had from the night of your wife’s disappearance. Before we dive into that, I’d like to just get to know a little about your wife if possible. I guess we can start with what her day-to-day activities were like.”

  He sniffed, brushed a knuckle across the bottom of his nose, and began.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My interview with Ramey took a good hour. We went over his relationship with his wife and stepson, the scene, and the time leading up to her disappearance. Through a half a box of tissues on my desk, he addressed each topic in detail. It seemed that he didn’t have much of a relationship with his stepson, due to him “being destined for a life of crime.” While he might have had a strained relationship with Michael, it appeared as though Gretchen had not. Ramey told me that Michael’s run-ins with the law aside, one problem he didn’t have was loving his mother. The two frequently spent time with each other, and their relationship was strong. The scene he described was strikingly similar to the one of Ida Bishop—signs of a struggle and items and drawers gone through in the master bedroom. As far as anything seeming off prior to Gretchen’s disappearance, Ramey said he couldn’t think of a single thing. At the end of my interview, I had no reason to think Randy Ramey or his stepson had any direct involvement with Gretchen being taken captive. I thanked Mr. Ramey for meeting with me and walked him from the building. My final words to him were that I’d keep him updated and do my damnedest to find the person or persons responsible.

  I hung up from my call with Rick and dialed Hank. The phone rang and rang in my ear. On the tenth or eleventh ring, Hank’s voicemail picked up. I left him a message to call me and tossed the phone back on its base. I glanced down at my watch—a couple of minutes after five o’clock. A bang came on the glass behind my head. I looked over my shoulder and saw Bostok motioning me over to his office. I left my desk and walked next d
oor.

  “What’s up, Cap?” I asked. I leaned against his open doorway.

  “How did that interview go? What did we learn about the wife?” he asked.

  “Not anything we can run with. She worked at a bank near her house. Eight to five weekdays and nine to noon on Saturdays. After that, she’d come home. I don’t know. Normal married life. Husband said that they were happy. He didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary the days leading up to or the day when she was abducted. The scene was basically the same as the one I was at earlier. Forced entry, signs of a struggle, valuables rummaged through. I guess he gave the Plant City PD a detailed list of jewelry that was missing—I’ll call back to the captain there and see if they got anywhere with that.”

  “Okay. I’m getting ready to leave here within the next couple minutes. What have you got going on right now?” he asked.

  “Waiting to see what, if anything, Rick comes up with on prints from the Ida Bishop house.”

  “Is he back from the scene yet?”

  “Yeah, he just walked into the station a few minutes ago and called me from downstairs. He’s starting on the prints now.”

  Bostok leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his belly. “You’re waiting here until you get results, I take it.”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Sit,” Bostok said.

  I walked into his office and sat across from him.

  “I want you to take a look at this.” Bostok leaned forward and grabbed a piece of paper from the drawer of his desk. He slid it over to me.

  I stared down at a page that contained a handwritten list of times of day. Each line had a time for a.m. and p.m. There seemed to be about fourteen of them. The number 141 was circled.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “That’s how many hours you’ve been here in the last two weeks. I’ve been keeping track. You didn’t notice that I’ve been asking you what time you came and left every day?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “You know that you’re salary, right? Salary based off of about ninety hours?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “So why is there another full week’s plus worth of hours on here?”

  “Is this me getting a talking-to for being here too much?” I asked. I cracked my knuckles. “Working cases, doing schedules, on call when needed. The hours add up. Plus that’s probably a little skewed from when I come in early and hit the gym. Or go to the gym before I leave.”

  “We haven’t had a case until this morning. The last homicide you worked was three weeks ago, and you wrapped it up in a day. You weren’t called in once in the last two weeks. You were here both days this last weekend. I think you actually stayed here overnight the one day.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And speaking of the gym, stay the hell out of there. You’re big enough. Your damn head is starting to blend in with your shoulders, and you can’t even put your damn arms down to your sides.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Remember that real nice condo you have up the street? You should get some use out of that. Whatever Rick gives you, if anything, pass it off to the night shift and go home.”

  “Well, if he gives me something that’s actionable, I’m going to need to get on it right away.”

  “We have these two guys that are here at night. Um…” Bostok snapped his fingers and looked at the ceiling of his office, as if in thought. “Oh yeah, Detectives Donner and Reynolds. They work homicide at night. You know, the guys that take over after you, Hank and Jones, are supposed to call it a wrap for the day. Maybe let those guys do their jobs every now and again. And don’t keep Rick here all damn night just because you want to work. Remember, these other people here have families, wives, shit like that. They actually want to go home.”

  I grumbled and rearranged myself in the captain’s guest chair. I held my palms up. “If Rick calls me and says he has a hit on some prints, I’m not going to just pass it off.”

  Captain Bostok scrunched his round face, rubbed at his white mustache, and leaned forward for his phone. He punched in four numbers, an internal call to the station, and held the phone to his ear. “Hey, Rick. It’s Bostok,” he said. “When you get those print results, call Detective Donner. Something came up with Kane and he had to run.” Bostok paused for a moment. “Yeah, it was a personal matter. Appreciate it.” The captain hung his phone back on its base.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “See you in the morning, Kane.” Bostok waved goodbye at me.

  “Just let me call Hank, and I’ll go home.”

  “Five minutes. I’ll actually walk out with you. There was something that I wanted to talk to you about, anyway. It’s more of an outside-the-office thing.”

  I let out a breath and rubbed my eyes. While I didn’t like being told to go home and not do my job, I did need to tend to Butch, and having a beer while relaxing on my patio didn’t sound like the worst idea. Bostok’s mention of a talk that was an “outside-the-office thing” left me a bit intrigued. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to talk to me about that could fall into that category. “Okay,” I said. I stood and walked out. I sat down at my desk and dialed Hank. Again, his phone went to voicemail. I tried Detective Jones, who I figured would still be on the scene with Hank. Jones answered within two rings.

  “Jones,” he said.

  “Hey, it’s Kane. Are you still at the Ida Bishop house?” I asked.

  “Still here, Lieutenant.”

  “What about Hank?”

  “He’s actually talking to a woman across the street. I guess she said she might have seen a vehicle over here the night in question. Sergeant Rawlings is with her now getting a statement.”

  “Possible eyewitness, huh? Were you guys door knocking?” I asked.

  “Yup. The Sergeant thought it would be a good idea. Looks like he might have been right.”

  “What did this woman say?”

  “I didn’t get much more than that, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay. How long do you guys think you’ll still be out there?”

  “Not sure. A little bit yet,” Jones said.

  I scratched at my beard in thought. “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.” I hung up the phone and grabbed my car keys from my desk drawer.

  The sound of a door closing behind me caught my attention. The glass behind my head rattled. I looked over my shoulder to see Bostok locking up his office. He walked to my doorway.

  “Ready?” Bostok asked, standing there.

  “Yeah, one second.” I powered off my computer and locked up my office.

  Bostok walked next to me down the hall toward the parking structure.

  I looked at him walking to my left. “I have to say that this feels like I’m being escorted from the building.”

  He chuckled. “You’re going to sit here all night if I don’t. You need to get out of this damn station before it melts your brain.”

  “My brain is just fine,” I said. “Not melty at all.”

  “I’m serious.” Bostok pushed open the doors that led to our parking structure.

  “So what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked. “The outside-the-office thing?”

  “Oh, yeah, that was just bullshit so you’d actually walk out with me and I could see you off.” Bostok made a left for his sedan parked a couple of cars away from my Mustang. “Catch you in the morning.”

  I shook my head, walked to my car, and got inside.

  I fired the motor, lowered the windows, and gave the throttle a tap. The supercharger made a high-pitched whine. The exhaust echoed through the structure. I shifted into reverse, backed up, and made my way down to street level. My cell phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw that it was Hank calling. I clicked Talk.

  “What’s up?” I answered.

  “Hey, we’re just wrapping up on the scene here and heading back.”

  “You’re done there?” I asked. “I was just
coming there. Jones said that you had a possible eyewitness to a vehicle or something?”

  “Yeah, we’re done. Jones and I were the last here. We’re just leaving the neighborhood. I actually just talked to Bostok to let him know what we got with the possible witness. I’m not sure what we can really make of what the woman said, but I’m going to stop at the station quick before heading home and have Timmons, or shit, probably Sergeant Mueller now, put a BOLO out over the wire on the vehicle’s identification.”

  “What’s the vehicle, and what did she say?” I asked.

  “The woman, mid-fifties, lives across the street and two houses down. She claims that she saw a 1980s gray minivan parked up the block last week with a pair of guys just sitting in it. Then claims she saw the same van again the night of the abduction. She says this was around midnight. I guess she’d just returned home from being out with friends.”

  “Guys in the van the second time?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t certain.”

  “Has she seen the van since?”

  “She says no,” Hank said. “I got a statement from her, and like I said, I’ll give the description to patrol.”

  “Any more details other than gray 1980s minivan?”

  “Boxy, and looked old, she said. I pulled up a bunch of photos of vans on my phone, and she seemed to think that it was a Chevy Astro or one of its variants. GMC or whatever. The problem there is they were basically built the same from the mid-eighties until like 2005.”

  “How did she determine it as 1980s?” I asked.

  “I guess that was the ‘it looked old’ part,” Hank said.

  “All right. Bostok pretty much forced me to go home because I guess I’ve been putting too much time in.”

  “You have,” Hank interrupted.

  “Yeah, well, I guess whatever details that Rick gets tonight on the prints are going to be sent to Donner and Reynolds. I’ll send the word out to them to forward anything on to us so we can stay on top of things.” I made a right off South Hyde Park Avenue and started around the block to get to the front of my building.

  “Sure,” Hank said. “So you’re actually heading home, huh?” he asked.