by Rick Reed
Jack said, “Peter Gunn was a television private eye in the late fifties. He shot all the bad guys and got all the babes.”
“I was just kidding. I know who he is and that’s you to a T, brother,” Vinnie said.
Jack knew Vinnie had a bit of a past, but he didn’t look dangerous. More like a pot farmer. Definitely a pot consumer. In any case he was loyal to Jake Brady and had a heart as big as the outdoors.
Jack sat in the far corner of the room where he had a clear view of the doors and the outside.
“What do you want to eat, Jack?” Vinnie asked.
“Got any pizza?”
“You want a Guinness with that?”
“Vinnie, I’m surprised at you. When have I ever not wanted a Guinness?”
“You got it, my man,” Vinnie said and went to the kitchen.
Jack sat back and took in the view. To the west he could see all the way downriver to the Blue Star Casino Riverboat with its two-story pavilion surrounded by a park-like setting. The riverboat reminded him of the old 1800s paddlewheel gambling boats made famous by Mark Twain’s books. His stories had always conjured up images of riverboat gamblers with walking sticks, stovepipe hats, women on their arms wearing bright-colored gowns and parasols on their shoulders, strolling the decks and grounds. Instead, as he watched now, he saw several fat guys in too-tight bowling shirts leaning on the upper rails of the riverboat. A poorly dressed granny-apple-faced woman was looking Jack’s direction, sucking down cigarettes and swilling beer. Would Mark Twain have written about this? I don’t think so.
A tugboat was across the river, pushing several barges mounded with coal, no doubt heading to the Alcoa plant in Yankeetown. Jack again wondered what life was like back in the days when Evansville was newly settled. No cars. Fewer people. But no pizza.
Vinnie came back and set a beer on the table.
Jack said, “Vinnie, did you know that Guinness Brewery was founded in 1750-something?”
“No, but I can see you take your beer seriously.”
“The Guinness family signed a nine-thousand-year lease at forty-five pounds a year on a brewery in Dublin.”
“You don’t say. Be back with that pizza in a few minutes. I put one in the oven just the way you like it.”
A deep voice bellowed from the kitchen doors, “Pizza, my ass!”
Jake Brady stood in the doorway. A flower-patterned apron loosely hung around his bull neck. At sixty-five-plus years, Brady wasn’t an old man by any standards. He stood well over six feet tall with a full head of curly, reddish gray hair and huge, hairy, freckled forearms. He had more hair on his neck than most men had on their heads. It was almost comical seeing this giant wearing an apron and cooking mitts. Then Jack saw that Brady was holding an iron platter with a sizzling sixteen-ounce sirloin and baked potato. Brady’s specialty.
“Saw you coming up the river,” Brady said, and put the platter in front of Jack.
“Save the pizza for me, Vinnie. I’ll take it home.” Jack said.
Half a dozen customers were in the restaurant, and most were startled when Brady announced in a booming voice, “Hey. Everybody. This is Detective Jack Murphy. The man’s a hero no matter what the papers are saying. And, by God, in this place a hero gets a special meal!”
Scattered clapping broke out, and all the attention embarrassed Jack. He didn’t know what he was more uncomfortable with—praise or hatred. But his discomfort was forgotten when he cut into the steak. All he’d had this morning was the beer-eal with a side of Guinness.
Brady slid into the seat across from him.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Jack said.
“Sure I gotta do this.” Brady frowned at Jack like he was scolding a truant child. “This place is half yours. Your dad would’ve done it for you. God rest his soul. Best partner I ever had. He would’ve told you that this would all blow over. That girl would have killed you if she had half a chance.”
“I know,” Jack said, and cut into the steak. It sliced like butter and tasted like a bit of heaven.
Brady watched expectantly.
“Orgasm,” Jack said.
“Enjoy.” Brady stood to leave but Jack stopped him.
“Sit a while. I can use the company.” He pointed at the flowery kitchen mitts and said, “That is, if you’re not too busy in the kitchen. Or hanging your frilly panties to dry on the clothesline.”
“Why, you young pup!” Brady blustered. “I was a cop when you was still messin’ your diapers.”
“Phone call,” Vinnie yelled from the kitchen door.
“Eat your steak . . . hero.” Brady picked up the mittens and apron and headed for the kitchen.
Brady was carrying a steaming mug of coffee when he returned. “Better drink this, lad.” He set the coffee in front of Jack and picked up the Guinness. “It’s your friend, Killian,” he said, and brushed a hand through his thick hair.
Jack was confused at first by Brady’s shocked expression and then it sank in that Killian wasn’t the one on the telephone.
“What?” Jack’s jaw clenched. “What’s happened?”
“Liddell’s coming to pick you up. Killian’s been shot. It doesn’t look good for him.”
Chapter Seven
The Franklin Industrial Complex consisted of abandoned buildings surrounded by a ghetto. Most of the homes were condemned, and waiting for bulldozers to finish what neglect had started. Sheet-metal-and wood-sided buildings lined both sides of the street. The parking and delivery areas had long ago turned to rubble and weeds. The once bustling industrial complex had been sentenced to death by the creation of the new Lloyd Expressway. The expressway budget wouldn’t allow for exit and entrance ramps to access Franklin Street, and the life-giving traffic artery to the warehouse district had bled out.
Like grapes on a dead vine, businesses dried up overnight, and many hundreds of workers found themselves unemployed unless they moved to Mexico or some other less-taxed country. Some made the move, some found other jobs, and some were left unemployed and forced on food stamps and public aid. The poor had to survive, and so crimes like burglary, theft, and robbery skyrocketed citywide.
The mayor said the city wasn’t to blame and that the building of the expressway was inevitable if Evansville wanted to grow. Putting in a ramp at Franklin or Highway 41 wouldn’t fit in the budget. However, money was found for a cloverleaf where the Lloyd intersected with Fulton Avenue . . . a direct route to the Blue Star Riverboat Casino. Jack and probably everyone in Evansville knew the driving force behind the Expressway was to satisfy the interests of the Blue Star Casino, which in turn, increased the casino’s revenue exponentially, and by doing so, had lined a few pockets. Politics at its finest.
Jack and Liddell were directed to the back entry, where Officer Fellwock stood alone in the doorway of the building holding a clipboard.
“Hiya, Jack.”
Jack took the clipboard, signed in, and then handed it to Liddell.
“How’re the kids?” Jack asked.
“Fine. Just fine,” Fellwock said and shook Jack’s hand. “Good to have you back. ATF’s in there with Captain Franklin. I heard your friend Double Dick’s on his way.”
“He’s not my friend,” Jack said. He didn’t know why everyone said “your friend.” Double Dick hated the very air Jack breathed and the feeling was mutual. Since the victim was a federal agent, Jack had expected some extra pressure, but if Double Dick showed up the crime scene would break down into utter chaos. The entourage of news media that followed Dick around would trample evidence.
Fellwock took the clipboard and said to Liddell, “Nice job with that robbery. You drive like my wife.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” Liddell said.
The officer grinned and waved an arm toward the open door. “As punishment you’re stuck with Murphy again. My condolences.”
The building had appeared immense from the outside, but it was absolutely cavernous inside. The flo
or was concrete, the walls were corrugated sheet metal bolted to a framework of steel I-beams curving upward to a pre-engineered roof. Jack could see outlines on the concrete floor where large machines had once been bolted down, but now were gone, dismantled, packed up, and moved to a new location, wherever businesses were fleeing to these days. Maybe, with enough incentives, Japan or India or Russia or North Korea would buy up the land and hire a few Americans. It was ironic how the President’s PR crew talked about the number of jobs his term had created and never talked about the number that were unemployed due to outsourcing, not to mention their paying higher medical insurance rates.
A half-dozen crime scene technicians dressed in blue jumpsuits worked the grid. Crime Scene Sergeant Tony Walker was concentrating on an area on the north side of the room. A number of orange and yellow plastic cones created a pattern on the floor. As Jack and Liddell walked in that direction bits of broken glass crunched under their feet.
Liddell got Jack’s attention. “Who’s that with the captain?”
“SAIC Lenny Misino,” Jack said. “The new ATF boss. Killian introduced us. I only know what Killian told me about him, which isn’t much. He came from D.C. so he must have done something wrong to get his ass posted here.” Jack couldn’t hear what the captain and Misino were saying to each other, but the captain’s stiff posture and Misino’s arm waving and pointing told him the discussion wasn’t going well.
Franklin and SAIC Lenny Misino seemed to have come to an agreement and walked over. Captain Franklin made introductions.
Jack shook the ATF chief’s hand and said, “Killian introduced us when you first came here.”
Liddell and Misino shook hands and Jack asked, “Any word on Killian’s condition?”
“Not so good,” Misino answered. “Bastard shot him in the face. He’s at Deaconess Hospital. Might be in surgery already.”
“Let me walk you through what we know,” Captain Franklin said. He pointed to a spot where two crime scene techs were working a grid.
“We think Killian was meeting someone,” Franklin said, and this caused Misino to scowl. Jack could sense this was what the two supervisors had been arguing about. “He was shot point-blank. Paramedics stabilized him, but he had almost bled out.”
Misino took over. “No witnesses, as you might guess. His gun was still in its holster and wasn’t fired. His credential case and money were taken, so it might have been a robbery.”
Franklin said, “Or someone wanting it to look like a robbery. We’ve been discussing it and it doesn’t make sense. If it was a robbery why didn’t they take his gun?”
Jack agreed with the captain, but suggested, “Guns can be traced. Maybe whoever did this knows that. But why take Killian’s credentials? Maybe for a trophy. Maybe someone really had it in for him.” Jack turned to Misino and asked, “Was it a contact wound?”
Misino said, “I didn’t see him before the ambulance took him. But your officer said it looked like a real close-up. Like someone put the barrel just inches from his face.”
Jack digested that. If it was a contact wound, or just about, it would rule out a homeless person. Killian wasn’t stupid enough to let them get that close. Captain Franklin’s opinion that he was meeting someone made better sense. They could get close enough. It was someone Killian trusted. Or maybe he was just blindsided.
“If his ID was taken how did you identify him?” Jack asked.
Franklin answered. “Officer Fellwock spotted a car back behind the building. The driver’s door was standing wide open. He thought it was suspicious, ran the plate, and it came back as a government number. Fellwock looked inside the car, found registration and some papers with Killian’s name on them. He knew Killian was with the ATF. It crossed his mind that Killian might be working something, but he didn’t think he would leave his car door open. He looked around and found the door over there open. Came in. Found him. Called for EMS and backup.”
Misino said, “Officer Fellwock saved Killian’s life. If he’d gotten to him ten minutes later we would have a murder on our hands.”
“Evidence?” Jack asked. Franklin’s expression said the answer was no.
“Did anyone properly search Killian’s car yet?” Liddell asked.
Franklin said, “Fellwock said the driver’s door and the glove box were open. The registration and the papers he found were in the glove box. Crime Scene is processing it, but we don’t know if anything is missing.”
“Anything else?” Jack asked.
The ATF chief said to Captain Franklin, “I want Murphy on this, Captain. I’ll give you any help you need. Resources, men, you name it.”
“And Deputy Chief Dick?” Jack addressed the question to Franklin, but Misino answered.
“He won’t be a problem. If he gets in your way you call me.”
Jack wasn’t so sure Misino could deliver on that promise. Dick was more of a politician than a cop. Politicians take care of their own.
“You’ll be going to the hospital?” Misino asked.
“I need to check with Sergeant Walker,” Jack answered.
“You know his wife, Barbara?” Misino asked.
“I do.” Jack had spent a few nights at Killian’s house sleeping off a drunk after a fishing trip.
“I personally notified her and had Agent Pons go by her house to take her to the hospital.”
“They have two sons,” Jack said. “The boys will need to stay with someone a while.”
“Taken care of,” Misino said. “Agent Pons will meet you at the hospital.” He gave Jack the agent’s cell number.
Jack was glad Tony Walker was in charge of this crime scene. Tony had been Jack’s partner for a couple of years, but he was transferred to Crime Scene when he made sergeant. Jack thought the move was a waste of a brilliant detective, but it proved to be the best of both worlds having a crime scene sergeant who was a helluva detective as well.
“This wasn’t a robbery,” Walker said.
Liddell said, “I think the ATF chief was embarrassed he didn’t know why Killian was here.”
Walker stood with arms crossed, his chin propped in one hand. “His car doors were found open. If Killian left them open it means he was pursuing someone and chased them in here and got shot. My guys are going over the car.”
Jack didn’t buy that. Killian would have called it in if someone was fleeing from him. That reminded him to see if they had found Killian’s cell phone or radio. “Suppose Killian was already here—for what reason we don’t know. He gets surprised. Shot in the face, close up, which means he probably knew the shooter, which in turn means he was probably meeting someone here. Then the shooter searched Killian’s car. Or . . . Killian was made to drive here by someone, then forced out of the car, and taken in the warehouse and shot. But if that were true why would they leave his car doors open? And why not take his gun?”
“Sergeant Walker,” a woman’s voice called from above them on the catwalk. “I think you should see this.”
Jack and Liddell followed Sergeant Walker. Jack said, “If you find his cell phone or radio let me know.”
“Will do,” Walker said and led them up the stairs to a railed catwalk. The flooring was made of heavy metal mesh, and it ran around the entire upper portion of the warehouse. This was encircled by windows. A tech, an athletic-looking brunette, approached them and indicated she’d found something.
She took them about twenty feet away from the stairs where a single window was open. Jack looked out the window. Below was Franklin Street. Across the street was a warehouse in most respects identical to this one. The only difference was the wooden shack at the opening of a large parking area. This must be where trucks would check in and leave or pick up loads.
“This window was open when I got up here. Check this out,” the tech said and pointed with a gloved finger.
She was pointing at the hinge for the window. There were signs that it had been lubricated recently.
“Can you open a window on either s
ide?” Jack asked her.
“I tried, but they are pretty stiff. I think I’ve got some latent prints on this one.”
Liddell said, “Killian’s fingerprints should be in the database. If you get prints, run his for comparison.”
“Will do,” the tech said. “But that’s not all.” She leaned down a little and pointed across the street. “I think those are tire tracks leading up to that little guard shack across the street. Right there,” she said, and Jack saw where she was pointing.
Remnants of a tall chain-link fence and posts lay on the ground on either side of the shack where the gates must have at one time stood. The wooden four-by-four posts had been shorn off to the ground, but even from here, Jack could see the tops of them looked disturbed. There were distinct lines running from the street up to the door of the shack where the weeds and rubble had been disturbed.
“Tony, can you ask if any of our people parked there or turned around there?” Jack asked, hoping to rule that out.
“My guys would know better than to do that, but I’ll spread the word.” He turned to the tech and said, “Good work, Wanda. The crime scene just got bigger. You found it, so go over there and secure it.”
Wanda seemed pleased and gathered her gear.
Walker said, “And take a couple of uniform officers with you to check out the shack. Just in case.”
“Yes sir,” she said. “You want me to finish up here first?”
“I got it,” Walker said, and she hurried down the stairs.
“Wait here,” Walker said to Jack and Liddell. Digging in a pocket, he came out with paper booties and latex gloves for them. He then walked the catwalk, playing a flashlight beam right, left, up and down, over every surface as he went. He stopped beside a vertical steel I-beam, examining something, then lifting his digital camera and snapping pictures. He motioned for Jack and Liddell to join him.
“Someone was standing here. See.” He trained the flashlight on the I-beam. The dust was disturbed at about shoulder height. “Someone rubbed against it. I’m guessing it was someone taller than Killian.”
“We’re going across the street and then to the hospital,” Jack said. “Oh, and let me know about the phone or radio.”