Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  CHAPTER 12

  "It doesn't smell like cow shit," I said, as Decker and I drove back from our third one-on-one training session. There was a running trail through a small park not far from Heavenly Falls. We did a few miles and then some agility and conditioning exercises. We were travelling in Decker's Mercedes coupe that had been the object of, as I liked to call it, the mad-cow attack.

  "That's because I put in new carpet and seats."

  "Did the police try to find out who did it?"

  "Kind of. Once they stopped laughing."

  "You mean the police weren't sensitive to a rich guy who had cow shit dropped on his hundred thousand dollar luxury car? How unlike them."

  "Yeah, I know it sounds funny but it might cost me my career. What with the other trainings I've missed, the drinking rumors and my injury, the owners aren't amused at all. That's why it's important I get my fitness back and get back playing as soon as possible. I have to make them forget this shit." He glanced at me. "And I do mean shit."

  "So what did the police come up with?"

  "The car was parked in my driveway so I thought the CCTV footage might have caught it. But someone sprayed the camera lens with paint so it didn't get anything. The police were never able to trace the truck that dumped it. But like you said, I don't think they tried very hard."

  "Shit happens, eh?"

  "Don't start. I've heard them all since it happened."

  I had picked Decker as one of those heavy foot drivers. But he drove smoothly and economically, well under the speed limit.

  "Those scars on your body. Did you get them in Afghanistan?" He spoke conversationally but I sensed something stronger behind his words.

  "Yes."

  "What happened? Were you shot?"

  "Yes."

  "They don't look like bullet wounds."

  I watched Decker give way to an old lady who was crossing illegally at a roundabout. A gray sedan braked hard behind us.

  "I was a prisoner for a while. They happened there."

  "Oh." I felt him scrutinizing me. "How did they capture you?"

  "I got separated from my platoon."

  He was quiet as he negotiated a series of turns. The gray sedan I noticed was still behind us.

  "Do you blame your platoon?"

  A strange question. Most people who knew something of my history asked things like How did you escape? What did they do to you? What were the conditions like? No one had ever asked me this.

  "No, why should I blame them?"

  "For leaving you behind. Were you angry at them?"

  His face was strangely tense and the sunlight highlighted the white spots on his cheeks.

  "No. It wasn't their fault. There was nothing they could have done. They thought I was dead, and we were outnumbered and had wounded. It would have been suicide for them to return for me."

  "But they could have tried. Don't you think they should have tried?"

  "In war you make split-second life and death decisions all the time. Some good, some bad. You make what you think is the right call. But they don't always turn out right. You can't second guess them later. You do what you have to do at the time. That's all that matters."

  I continued watching the gray sedan. It stayed the same distance behind us.

  "But what if their call was wrong? Do you think they regret not trying to come back for you?"

  "I suppose they might. I've never thought about it. We all have regrets. They just have to learn to live with them."

  We were in a quiet suburban street. The gray sedan suddenly accelerated and began emitting a flashing, blue light followed by a police siren.

  "Crap! I wasn't speeding was I?"

  "No. Somehow I don't think they want to give you a speeding ticket."

  Decker pulled over and the unmarked police car pulled in behind us. We weren't far from Decker's house and some kids were throwing a football around in the front yard of the house next to us. They stopped when they saw the police car and gathered at the fence. A black and white came around the corner from the other direction and stopped in front of us. Decker's face was tight with tension.

  "You haven't got anything illegal on you, have you?" I said.

  "After the trouble I've been in? Are you kidding? I can't afford another scandal. What the fuck do they want?"

  "Relax, if you haven't done anything wrong you've nothing to worry about."

  Nice words but I didn't know how true they were. It didn't take two cop cars to pull over someone for a traffic violation. I didn't like how the whole thing was orchestrated. This wasn't a random pullover. It was planned.

  Two cops in suits got out of the unmarked car and two uniforms stood behind the open doors of the black and white. All of the cops had their hands close to their guns.

  "Somehow, I don't think they're going to give us a speeding ticket," I said.

  "Police." one of the cops behind us called out. "Get out of the car and keep your hands on your head. Keep your hands where we can see them the whole time."

  "Be cool," I told Decker.

  "What? You think I'm going to make a run for it or something? I'm not crazy."

  I climbed out of the car and put my hands on my head.

  "Kneel down and keep your hands on your head," yelled a cop.

  "What's this about?" I said.

  "Just do it. Now."

  I did as I was instructed. One of the uniforms covered me while the plainclothes cop quickly searched me.

  "What are you looking for?" I asked him.

  "This one's clear," he called.

  "So is this one," came an answering call.

  "Sir, please stand and go and sit on the curb."

  I walked over and sat next to Decker.

  "Sir, I'm Detective Larson. Is this your car?" said a thick set cop with a shaven head.

  Decker said, "Yes."

  "Can I please see your license and papers?"

  "Registration papers are in the glove compartment," said Decker, handing over his license.

  Larson looked at the license then called his partner over. They spoke quietly to each other, looking down at the license then up at Decker. Larson stood in front of us.

  "Sir, are you carrying anything illegal in your car today?"

  "Today?" said Decker, disbelieving.

  "Are there any drugs or weapons in the vehicle, sir?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Have you loaned your car to anyone?"

  "No."

  "Does anyone have access to your car? Have you kept it locked today?"

  "I'm the only one who uses the car and I always keep it locked. It's a hundred thousand dollar car, for chrissakes. You think I leave it open?"

  "Yes, I can see it's a very expensive car, sir." From the sound of Larson's voice this seemed to count against him. "Do I have your permission to search the car?"

  Larson didn't have to ask. He was trying to see if Decker had anything to hide.

  "Yes, of course."

  Larson nodded at the two uniforms, who commenced searching the Mercedes.

  "Shit," said Decker. I followed his gaze and spotted the TV van that had pulled up behind the black and white. Two men climbed out, one holding a TV camera, the other, a digital camera with a long lens. The kids behind us began to talk excitedly.

  "It's him I tell you."

  "No, it's not. Decker is way bigger than that."

  "That's just the padding, you idiot. I'm telling you it's him."

  Decker looked at me and I could see the desperation and fear in his eyes.

  "Don't do anything stupid, Troy," I said.

  "I can't be here," he muttered.

  "Troy! Don't do anything. It's going to be all right."

  One of the camera men pointed towards us and they began to edge around the cars to get a front on view of us.

  Decker began to stand up. Larson's partner jumped on him, pinning him to the ground, and cuffed him. Decker twisted and bucked underneath him.

 
"Don't move! Stay where you are," shouted the cop.

  "Troy! Don't resist!" I ordered.

  Decker collapsed and lay limp.

  "Get off him," I said to the cop.

  The cop climbed off, but Troy lay unmoving, his cheek on the blacktop. His eyes stared straight ahead, unmoving.

  "What are you looking for?" I said to Larson.

  "Can I see some ID please, sir?"

  "This is a set up," I said as I passed him my license. Behind him, one of the uniforms popped the trunk.

  "Sir?"

  "Why's there a goddam TV crew here?"

  He didn't even glance their way. "I don't know anything about that. I'm just doing my job."

  "Can you at least put him in a car where the cameras can't see him? You know who he is, don't you?"

  Larson gave me an icy glance. "I don't care if he's the fucking president. What I care about is if he's breaking the law."

  "Yeah, but you knew it was him before you pulled us up, didn't you? Care to say how you knew?"

  He regarded me silently and without any sympathy. "What were you doing in the car? Are you a friend of Mr. Decker's?"

  "This is a crock of bullshit. You know that, don't you?"

  One of the uniforms appeared at Larson's shoulder. "Found this wedged under the back seat." He passed Larson a bundle wrapped in a white rag.

  "Is this yours, Mr. Decker?" Larson said.

  Decker lay there unmoving and silent.

  Larson pulled the rag back revealing a handgun and a plastic bag containing a white powder.

  A camera flash went off behind us.

  CHAPTER 13

  I sat in the interview-room, waiting. White walls, white table and three white chairs. If they thought that letting me stew would worry me, they were in for a surprise. After Afghanistan, you could hang me by the skin of my chest for an hour and it would seem like a picnic. Besides, I had more than enough thoughts to keep me occupied.

  It appeared that Liz was right. Someone was out to get Decker. Not necessarily to hurt him physically, but definitely to wreck his career. The handgun and drugs were obviously planted. Decker's career meant too much for him to do something as brain dead as to be caught in possession of an unregistered handgun and cocaine. The police tailing us and the convenient manner in which the media rolled up screamed setup. The mugging and the cow-manure incidents all pointed towards someone with a vendetta against Decker.

  So who hated Decker so much they wanted to ruin him? A disgruntled fan? Spurned lover? Someone he owed money?

  The door opened and Detective Sanders walked in. Dressed in black pants and shirt, she looked good. Incongruously, she wore a pair of white Nike runners. We regarded each other silently. Sometimes I thought there was something there. There had been a few moments where something had passed between us. But the fact that she regarded me as a violent, unstable criminal-in-waiting probably didn't do anything for my cause. Sanders was as straight as a dye and married to concepts such as law and justice. I, on the other hand, had been divorced from these values since I was fifteen. Hell, we had never been married in the first place. I had always flirted with rules and regulations like a criminal Casanova.

  The silence stretched out.

  "Okay, I confess. I did it," I said.

  "You are starting to piss me off, Tanner."

  "Hey, for once I didn't do anything wrong." I tried to look injured, but this was like Ted Bundy standing over a body, trying to look innocent.

  "Possession of twenty five grams of coke and an unregistered handgun is doing nothing wrong?"

  "Come on, Kat. It was a setup. The police and press were waiting. They were obviously planted."

  "It's Katherine."

  "I like Kat. Katherine is too prissy and you're certainly not that."

  "No one calls me Kat."

  "That makes me special then, doesn't it?"

  "That's not quite the word I would use."

  "Kat, sometimes I get the feeling you don't like me."

  She gave me a strange look. "Tanner, you are so full of bullshit if I punched you I'd reckon you'd moo. In fact, I am sorely tempted to put it to the test. You go around like you're bulletproof but you're going to find you bleed red just like everybody else. I see you were arrested several days ago. At a goddam tennis match! Are you crazy?"

  I shrugged.

  "What can I say? He said it was out. I said it was in. What choice did I have?"

  She sat down next to me and crossed her legs. "Tanner, you could do time for assault. What were you thinking?"

  "I haven't been charged. They touched me first."

  "Why did they touch you?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Nothing to do with putting a trash can through someone's windshield?"

  "I know nothing about that. I heard there were some gang bangers running through the parking lot."

  "Gang bangers? In a tennis parking lot in Winchester?"

  "Well, they were very well dressed gang bangers."

  I watched Sander's toe go up and down.

  "What's the deal with you and Decker?" she said.

  "He's a friend of Liz's and she's worried someone is out to get him. So I'm looking after him."

  "Yeah? And how's that going?" Her brown eyes were expressionless.

  "You got me on a bad day."

  "When was the good day?"

  "Before you walked in."

  "Wrong. They sent me in to say you can go."

  "Go?"

  "Yeah. It was Decker's car. He'll be charged with owning an unregistered handgun and for possession."

  "Do you really think someone who is fighting for his career is going to do something as dumb as that?"

  "Have you looked in our prisons lately? Who do you think is in them? Cells full of Stephen Hawkings?"

  "Who tipped the police off?"

  She was silent. Her foot continued to tap.

  "They don't know, do they? Doesn't anyone think that's kind of suspicious? How did this person know the gun and drugs were in the car? I'll tell you how. He put them there."

  "If that's the case, it will come out in the investigation."

  I stood up and walked to the door.

  "You think so? Truth will triumph, is that it? That's a crock and you know it. The prisons might not be full of Hawkings, but they're certainly not full of guilty men either."

  "What did they say?"

  I stopped with one hand on the door knob. "What did who say?"

  "At the tennis match. What did they say?"

  I was silent a moment before answering. "He called Jade a retard."

  Our eyes locked, and she nodded. "Okay then."

  CHAPTER 14

  Sanders was right. I sucked. How could I let Decker get framed like that? I was supposed to be protecting him and I let him get caught with a car full of drugs and a firearm. I had to find out how the gun and drugs got into Decker's car or he could kiss his career goodbye. And quickly. Preferably before I saw Liz.

  The door in front of me opened and Detective Bensen and his pilot fish, Graves, walked out and disappeared down the corridor. I stopped at the door. I was supposed to have been taken back downstairs but I had left before my escort had arrived. I opened the door. Empty. God helps those who help themselves. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  It was a large room with four desks. The walls were covered by whiteboards and pin-boards. Pictures and writing covered all of them. I moved closer.

  I felt a kick to my stomach as I saw what was on the closest wall. Mom. Dad. Jade. The crime scene photos from my home fourteen years ago. Thanks to Mole, I had copies of the photos myself but it was still a shock to see them displayed like that. Next to each photo were pictures from the Abrahams' crime scene. Arrows were drawn from one photo to another. I read the notes written on the whiteboard next to the photos. There were two headings, Similarities: Differences:

  Under similarities was listed: male victim's MO; victims all Caucasian; same weapon,
knife or scalpel; type of wound; missing heart; bodies on floor; male bodies naked except for boxers; both males alive when incision made; deaths occurred in daytime; hematoma on rear of skulls; killer disturbed; murder weapon not found; murders occurred in victims' homes, no sign of forced entry.

  Under differences: seven years difference in age; Abrahams single, Tanners married; Abrahams wealthy, Tanners middle class; Abrahams college educated, Tanner only high school; Abrahams only victim, Tanners multiple victims; Abrahams no witnesses, Tanner one live witness (Jade); gas found next to Abrahams, none at Tanner's; water on floor found at Abrahams, none at Tanners.

  I took a deep breath. The list was very much the same as the one I had in my Winnebago. But seeing photos of my family here, being examined by eyes other than my own, seemed strangely wrong. Anyway, I noted, one of the differences was incorrect--water found on floor at Abrahams, none at Tanners. There had been water at the Tanner crime scene. I remembered clearly that when I found dad he had beads of water on his face. The cops didn't know because they had evaporated by the time the first unit arrived. I had always theorized that the killer used the water to rouse my dad. Had the killer been using the water to wake Abrahams up and knocked it over when he was disturbed?

  I stopped at another whiteboard with the heading, Killer Profile: Underneath it was written a list:

  Thrill kills?

  Serial killer?

  Male

  Thirty years plus

  Medical knowledge

  Friend of victims?

  Mental illness?

  Psychotic?

  Smart.

  Neat, unthreatening appearance.

  Organ theft for transplant?

  I felt like grabbing a whiteboard marker and adding EVIL to the list.

  My eye was taken by another whiteboard on which were pinned a series of photos. They were obviously crime scene photos of buildings that had been burnt down. The photos showed the exterior and interior of the gutted houses. What grabbed my attention were the photos of the bodies. Burnt to a black crisp they were unrecognizable as male or female and, in many cases, even as human. On the side of the whiteboard was a long list of dates, names, addresses and case file numbers. There must have been at least fifty. Several had been crossed out. The addresses interested me so I peered closer.