by EH Reinhard
“Okay. I appreciate the help. Do you think you could just email me everything that you have on him? We’re going to dive in here and see what we can come up with.”
“I’ll get everything over to you in a minute here. Just need the email to send it to.”
I gave it to him.
“Were you going to contact the mother?” Officer Hagen asked.
“We’ll get it taken care of,” I said.
“Sure. You should see that email shortly.”
“I appreciate it,” I said.
“Take care.” He clicked off.
I hung the phone up and stood from my chair. I walked next door to Bostok’s office.
“Come up with anything?” he asked.
I took a seat across from Bostok and gave him the short version of my talk with Officer Hagen.
“Okay. We should have that warrant shortly,” Bostok said. “You said that there’s a girlfriend at the residence?”
“Yeah. Parole officer said that he moved in with the woman. So I’m guessing that the property may in fact be hers.”
“All right.”
A tap came at the captain’s door behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see Hank walking in. Bostok pointed Hank at the guest chair beside me. Hank sat.
“What are we doing?” Hank asked.
“Waiting on our warrant to come so we can go and have a look at Tim Morgan’s house,” I said. “You got McCall sent off?”
“Yup,” Hank said. “I sent him with a card and said to call us if anything else rings a bell. Did you find out anything else about our DB?”
“I spoke with his PO. He didn’t seem to have much insight into the guy but was sending me the file he had. It should be in my in-box shortly, if it isn’t already. Actually, let me check.” I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and saw an email icon in the top corner. “Yeah, I have it here. Let me go and get this printed.”
“I’m going to raid the vending machines,” Hank said.
He followed me from Bostok’s office and disappeared down the hall to the lunchroom.
I sat at my desk and started the process of getting the file printed off. I browsed it briefly as I did—a prison log-in photo, copies of the home and office visits, some paperwork and statements from the arrest that got him locked up, miscellaneous papers and more papers. I called Rick as I continued with the printing and relayed the message that we had a positive ID on our burned DB. I let him know about the possibility of the small caliber bullet still in the remains. Rick said that he’d make contact with the Hernando County coroner to get the bullet. Before I even had all the pages printed, the captain was banging on the glass wall separating our offices. “Warrant is here,” I heard him say through the glass.
I finished printing all of the papers and gathered them together on my desk. I stuck them into a file and headed back to the captain’s office. Hank had returned and was digging into a bag of chips.
“Here you go,” Bostok said. He handed me the warrant. “What’s Jones working on?”
“I was having him try to work with Detective King to find me a couple of people with both drug and robbery charges. But now that the PO sent me the file with a couple names that Mr. Morgan was to not have contact with, basically past associates, I’m going to put him on digging into that. I’d like the people contacted and interviewed.”
“Okay. Who are you taking to serve this warrant?” Bostok asked.
“I’ll make a call to patrol,” I said. “We’ll get a car or two to meet us out there. If it’s just the woman there, one of us can break the news to her while the others have a look around.”
“Fair enough. Let me know what you get,” Bostok said.
“I will.” I turned toward Hank. “Come on.”
We left Bostok’s office and found Jones at his desk in the bull pen. He sat on an armless metal chair—with his huge frame, he couldn’t fit between the armrests in our bull pen’s standard office chairs.
Jones held his phone to his ear. He took the receiver from his chin and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Sitting on hold. What’s up?” he asked.
“Who’s on the line?” I asked.
“King gave me a couple of names that could be possibles. I’m trying to get a hold of the arresting officers from the other departments to see what they can tell me. After that, I’m digging into the gentleman’s club employees. The woman that did the scheduling gave me like fifteen names and numbers.”
“Any other news from King?” I asked.
“He said that he called around to about twenty different precincts, but nobody reported anything similar going on. I popped into his office before, and he was on the line with some Faust guy from the local FBI to see if they knew anything about this going on anywhere else. I don’t think he got much, though.”
“Hmm. This was a local agent he talked to?” I asked.
“I guess.”
“Never heard of him,” I said. “Okay, well, I have a couple more people for you to get in contact with.”
Jones took the phone from his ear and looked at the receiver before hanging it back on its base. “Damn call disconnected,” he said. “I’ll try them back in a second. What have you got?”
“I just got a file sent over to me on our burned DB.”
“You got an ID?” Jones interrupted.
“Yeah. His name was Tim Morgan. The coroner in Hernando County was able to get a print match. Good chance he was the body removed from the gentleman’s club.”
“Good, good.” Jones wrote the name down on a piece of paper.
“Here’s what we got on this guy.” I pulled the sheet of names that Tim Morgan was to not have contact with and handed it to Jones. “I want these people contacted. Interviewed. I want to know what they know about Tim Morgan.”
Jones stared down at the sheet in his hand. “Can I make a copy of this quick?”
“Just hang on to that one. Take the whole file,” I said. I set the folder down on his desk. “If I need to access it while we’re out, I can pull it up on my phone.”
“Got it,” Jones said. “Where are you guys headed?”
“We have a search warrant for this Morgan’s house. It’s local.”
“Are you sure you don’t need a hand with that?” Jones asked. “My foot has been itching for a door to kick.”
“We need someone on this,” I said. “I’ll pencil you in for our next door.”
Jones nodded and pulled the file folder toward him.
“Call me with any news,” I said.
“Okay.”
Hank and I took a car from the lot and left the station a couple of minutes after two o’clock. We drove on North Thirty-Seventh Street to the house in East Tampa. I’d radioed patrol for a couple of cars to meet us at the address. Officer Henry was closest to us, wrapping up a traffic stop. He said that he would be on scene to meet us within a few minutes. Officer Collison, who ran our SWAT unit, was also in the area and gave us an ETA of around ten minutes. I slowed as we passed an automotive repair shop behind a chain-link fence on our right. Hank’s navigation that was running on his phone said that I should make a left in a hundred feet. Through the windshield, I saw the street sign for Mohawk Drive.
“GPS says that’s our place there, right on the corner,” Hank said.
“Got it,” I said.
I made the turn, drove past the driveway, and put two tires in the washed-out grass just beyond the home.
“We’re waiting on patrol?” Hank asked.
“Yeah. It should be just a couple minutes, I’d think.”
“Sure,” Hank said.
We stepped from the car. I put my elbows up on the car’s roof and took in our surroundings. There wasn’t another house on the small block. I looked back over my shoulder. The home across the street appeared run-down and in disrepair. I looked up the driveway where we were about to serve the warrant. The Volkswagen that was registered to Tim Morgan sat on the left side of the driveway in front of the two-ca
r garage.
“Looks nicer than anything else in the neighborhood,” Hank said.
I nodded, staring at the house. The single-story home had matching dormer windows on the left and right sides. The left peaked over the garage, the right peaked over a pair of white barred windows. Between the two peaks was a sidewalk leading to a recessed front door.
“How do you want to do it?” Hank asked.
“Knock, see if the woman answers. Explain to her what happened, show her the warrant, and enter.”
“If she isn’t home?” Hank asked.
“Paper, rock, scissors for who boots the door,” I said. “Get on the radio and see what these guys’ twenties are.”
“Yeah,” Hank said. He dipped back into the car to make the call.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Shut your damn mouth!” David yelled. He stared down at Hana at his feet. David placed the money from the freezer into the reusable cloth grocery bag Hana had carried when she’d returned home earlier. David set the filled bag on the countertop, a few inches from what remained of her hand.
Hana continued to wail. She lay in a fetal position among the broken dishes on the kitchen floor. She clutched her left wrist in her right hand. She seemed to be trying to limit the blood loss from the recently removed appendages. David watched the blood pool beneath her arm. He lifted his line of sight to the counter, where there remained four fingers and an inch of hand that they were connected to. He needed to put an end to her but didn’t like the thought of sending a bullet through her head—the noise could bring undue attention in the middle of the afternoon. He’d thought about strangling her, but her flailing would cover him in blood.
David walked back to the knife block that he’d taken the cleaver from and pulled out a knife. He held it up, saw it was a serrated bread knife, and set it down on the counter. David removed another, holding it up and turning it in his hand. The ten-inch-long straight-bladed knife would be sufficient. Squeaking tennis shoes and cabinets banging caught his attention. David spun back toward the woman and saw her stumbling on her feet. She bounced around the edge of the kitchen cabinets and went for the front door.
“Bitch!” David shouted.
He gripped the knife and ran after her, then met her at the door as she was trying to work the front door’s dead bolt with her bloody right hand.
David slid the knife he held into her lower back. Out, and then back in again.
“I was always going to kill you,” he said into her ear.
He felt her knees give out. Hana collapsed to the laminate floor. She rolled over and faced up at him. David knelt over her. He stared her in the face and sunk the blade into her stomach. Blood bubbled from her lips as he worked the blade left to right. David pulled the knife from her stomach and jammed it into her chest.
With the woman dispatched, he needed to grab the cash, take her truck, and be on his way. David rose to his feet. Color outside of the front door’s small rectangular window caught his attention. A gray car slowed in front of the house. David stuck his face inches from the glass. The car looked to be a newer Dodge. Small antennas jutted up from the trunk lid—the vehicle appeared as if it was an unmarked police unit. The car disappeared behind the edge of the garage, which extended out from the recessed front door.
David rushed to one of the bedrooms that faced the front so he could get another look. The car had pulled in and parked in the patchy grass just beyond the driveway. He saw the doors open and two men in suits step from the car. They both looked up toward the house. David ducked from the window, keeping his head low. He peered out just at the bottom edge. The man in the passenger side had turned his back toward the house. The driver, a bald, bigger man, was resting his arms on the roof of the car, still staring at the home. The pair definitely appeared to be cops, detectives by the apparel and vehicle. They seemed as if they were waiting on something. The only thing David could think of was more cops.
David quickly went to the kitchen and scooped up the bag of cash from the countertop. His eyes shot left and right, spotting the woman’s purse lying on the floor near the dining room table. He rummaged through it as fast as he could and found her keys. David held the truck key in hand, passed through the mudroom, and walked through the doorway leading to the garage. He opened the passenger door of the pickup and tossed the bag of money on the passenger seat. David swung the door closed, with his eyes on the wall-mounted button for the overhead. He rounded the front of the truck and slapped the button to lift the overhead as he passed. David pulled open the driver’s door and pulled up the mask from around his neck so it would cover his face. He reached into his waistline for his pistol.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A noise caught my ear and drew my attention back to the house. The sound was the garage door lifting.
“Hank,” I said and banged on the window.
He popped back out of the car, still holding the mic on its coiled cable for the car’s radio. Hank looked over the roof at me. “What?”
I pointed at the house.
Hank turned and looked. “What the hell is this?” He tossed the mic back into the car.
The garage door was just about fully raised. I saw the tailgate of a newer black pickup truck parked inside.
“Let’s see what’s going on here,” I said. We started walking to the driveway. As I started up, I saw a man dressed in black at the driver’s door of the truck. “Sir!” I said in a loud voice. The man didn’t respond.
“Excuse me, sir!” I said louder.
We neared the trunk of the parked Volkswagen, just twenty feet from the man. He turned. I saw his masked face before I saw him lifting a gun.
“Shit!” I said. I lunged backward, almost tripping over Hank as he did the same. We took cover, staying low, at the trunk of the Volkswagen. My hand went into my jacket for my service weapon as four shots rang out. The rounds entered the right rear quarter panel and passenger side windows of the VW we took cover behind. I heard the sound of the truck’s motor fire.
I rose, my gun aimed at the back of the truck. Hank did the same. The pickup spun its tires and rocketed from the garage, directly for the Volkswagen. I put two rounds through the back glass into the cab of the truck before being yanked backward by Hank. We hit the ground on the far side of the car just as the collision registered in my ears. The VW pushed toward us as the truck sideswiped it and shot in reverse down the rest of the short driveway. I scrambled to my feet to get into a firing stance, using the Volkswagen, now moved mostly off the surface of the driveway, for cover. Hank already had a knee under him and had aim on the truck over the trunk lid. He fired multiple shots into the front of the truck and through the windshield. The truck bounced from the driveway into the street, still moving in reverse before plowing backward into our cruiser. The driver was out of sight from the window. I put three rounds into the driver’s side door. A hand with a pistol came from the window, firing blind in our direction. Bullets ripped into the back of the Volkswagen as we stayed low. I rose from my cover to see the truck speeding forward and making a right at the corner. I ran down the driveway with aim on the back of the pickup. “Call it in!” I shouted over my shoulder. “Get the car! The keys are still in it!”
I brought my sights on the truck as it made the turn. An oncoming car came into view.
“Shit,” I said. I lowered my weapon and ran to the corner. The truck sped down the street. I brought my gun up again, and another car came toward me. I couldn’t fire. I watched as the truck drove away at triple the speed limit. Two blocks, then four, then a right from my view, northbound on North Thirtieth Street.
I ran back for Hank, who was standing half out of the driver’s side door of our cruiser, on the radio. “Let’s go, let’s go!” I shouted.
He shook his head and pointed at the rear of the car.
As I approached the car, the smell of fuel filled my nose. The damage from the truck rear-ending our cruiser had punctured the fuel tank and pushed the car’s rear qua
rter panel directly into the left rear tire. The car wasn’t moving.
“Which way did he go?” Hank asked.
“Northbound on North Thirtieth. Black F-150. Late model. Body damage.”
Hank called it over the CB and tossed the mic back into the car. “That sure as hell didn’t go so well. You all right?”
“Yeah. You?”
“No holes,” Hank said.
“Where the hell are Henry and Collison?” I asked.
Hank shook his head and held up his palms. “Good question.”
Chatter came through the car’s radio. Hank reached back into the car and grabbed the mic. He called for a repeat. Collison came on saying that he was in the area and getting on Northbound Thirtieth Street in search of our truck. More units began to respond over the radio a split second later. Henry came on saying that he was less than a minute out.
“What are we doing?” Hank asked.
“Get patrol on the truck and suspect. Search the house,” I said.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Timmons at the station. He answered immediately.
“Timmons, it’s Kane,” I said.
“What the hell do you have going on out there? I just heard Sergeant Rawling’s calls over the radio. I’m dispatching more cars.”
“Okay. Get cars on the main arteries in and out of this neighborhood. We’re going to need a bird in the air,” I said.
“I’ll make the call. It’s a black F-150 we’re looking for?”
“Yeah, last seen traveling northbound on North Thirtieth Street in East Tampa. A minute ago. Body damage on the truck. Armed driver.”
“Got it. Do you need more cars on the scene there?”
“Officer Henry should be here any second. Send me a couple more.”
“Got it,” Timmons said.
“Relay whatever you get to my mobile phone.”
“Yup,” Timmons said.