by Rick Reed
Pons put the card in his shirt pocket.
“I’m going to get a couple of uniformed officers up here,” Jack said.
“You think someone might try to finish the job?” Pons asked.
“Until we know what Killian was working on, we won’t know,” Jack said.
* * *
A black-and-white patrol car was parked behind his Jeep. An overweight older cop named Karp was standing beside the Jeep, writing a ticket. Officer Karp saw Jack and said, “I should’a known.” He flipped the ticket book shut and stuck it in his back pocket. “You here about that ATF guy?”
Jack said he was. Karp was about to ask something when Jack’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. He listened a second and said to Karp, “I’ve got to take this.”
“Go ahead, Jack,” Karp said. “To hell with a bunch of doctors. You can park here long as you want. I was only writing the ticket because you had that FBI placard in the window” Karp got in his car and drove away.
Jack held the phone to his ear. “Barbara, how are you? I was just up there to see you.”
“Greg told me,” she said. “He’s in a coma, Jack. He . . . he . . . his face . . .”
“I’m so sorry, Barbara. I know now is not a good time, but can we talk? I’ve got a few questions if you feel up to it.”
“I’ve already told Greg that Killian wasn’t supposed to be working today. But I’m sure he was.” Jack heard her take a deep breath.
“I have to ask, but I can come back later. I’m sorry to bother you right now. You’ll be okay. Killian’s one tough ba . . . guy. Do you need anything?”
“I know you’re trying to help. I was told Marcie is coming to stay but I don’t know if I feel like company. Of course, Greg is here. He and Killian worked together.” She gave a halfhearted laugh and said, “I don’t know what I’m saying, Jack.”
Silence. Jack could only imagine the thoughts going through her mind. “I would sit with you if I could, Barb, you know that.”
As if she hadn’t heard him, Barbara said, “When he left this morning I had the feeling something was on his mind. You know he didn’t talk about work. He didn’t want me to worry . . .” Her voice broke and she began crying. Through the tears she said, “But I notice things. He was wearing his fatigue jacket. The one he always wore when he was on the job. He said it brought him luck. I just knew he was going somewhere he wasn’t going to tell me about.”
Jack had a dozen more questions, but she’d answered his main one. She obviously didn’t know anything, but she had a wife’s instinct.
“Barbara, I promise you I’ll find whoever is responsible for this.”
“A nurse is coming. I’ve got to go.”
“Barbara, wait a second. If you see a police officer sitting in the hall, don’t worry. I’m posting a man there. You’re not in any danger. I’m just doing it because—”
“You’re a good friend, Jack. Thank you,” she said.
Jack thought she’d hung up but she said, “You know, he did say something strange yesterday. We planned to take the neighbor’s kids with ours to the zoo, and he said he had to do something first.”
The neighbor Barbara was talking about was a drunk, abusive, asshole according to Killian. Those kids would be wearing tattered clothes and starving for both food and attention, if it weren’t for Barbara and Killian.
“I asked him where he was going, and he said he was going to church. It was Wednesday, and he was wearing his fatigue jacket. I take the kids to church every Sunday, but he never comes with us.”
“Jack knew Killian had grown up Catholic, but he never talked about religion fondly. He’d once told Jack that he’d gone to Mass enough in grade school that he was all paid up. It was strange he would tell her that he was going there.
Jack drove to headquarters. He had to get his unmarked car and meet with Captain Franklin and SAIC Misino. He called ahead and they were already waiting in the chief’s conference room. Franklin told him he’d just dispatched two police officers to the hospital and there would be round-the-clock security. He had just disconnected when his phone vibrated in his hand. It was Sergeant Walker.
“Tony, tell me you have something,” Jack said.
Chapter Ten
Property taxes in Warrick County were half those of neighboring Vanderburgh County, and that alone was a huge draw for the little community nestled around Honey Creek in Paradise. Its proximity to Evansville’s super-malls, five-star restaurants, playhouses, and world-class hospitals didn’t hurt either. And then there was the Honey Creek Country Club and Golf Course, private boat slips, and Knob Hill Marina, which sat on the north bank of the Ohio River.
Jim Ellert’s house was on the lakefront and came with its own covered dock. He and his wife had moved there when they were both pulling down good paychecks, she as an accountant and he as security chief at the Blue Star Casino. Life was good. They owned a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, were members of the country club, held parties and cookouts, and were the talk of the community.
Then a six-figure misunderstanding with one of his wife’s clients cost her job. But he assured her it would be okay. He would work double shifts to pay for their accustomed lifestyle. And he did, but it wasn’t enough. The homeowner association fees alone ate up a quarter of his earnings, and still his wife continued to spend as if nothing had changed. He filed bankruptcy and was lucky to keep the house, but all the furnishings—and his boat—were gone. For Jim Ellert, Paradise had become a prison.
But he still had his job. He was chief of security and held the rank of major, the highest rank attainable among the small security force onboard the casino. Most of his crew were under twenty-three or over sixty-five years of age and their IQs fluctuated just as much, with some of them dangerously close to being illiterate.
By state law, the Indiana state police kept a contingent of troopers on the boat, so they could handle arrests, but as far as all other security matters, Ellert had final say. He represented the casino. As far as he was concerned, if his security guards were able to do what they were told, they were smart enough. He actually preferred the slow, steady ones to the college kids he was forced to hire recently. The slow ones never asked questions. The college kids always wanted to know why they were doing something, or, worse yet, they tried to make decisions.
Last year, the casino had hired Ken Taylor, a Purdue University dropout but one of the casino owner’s family members. Ellert remembered the rude summons he’d received to come to the operations manager’s office, where he’d been hastily introduced to Taylor. Ellert was informed that he would still be the ranking security officer, but Taylor was now in charge of security operations.
Taylor had said, “You’re dismissed for now, Ellert.” Not Major Ellert. Not Mr. Ellert. Not even Jim. Taylor’s first act in his new position was to cut Ellert’s hours. There would be no more double shifts. As if to rub his face in it, Taylor had given the overtime available to the new guys he had hired. Most of them were Taylor’s college buddies, and most were screwups.
Just when things had become unbearable at home, Ellert’s wife informed him she had been offered a job. He was ecstatic until she told him the job was as administrative assistant to Ken Taylor.
He couldn’t tell her not to work because they were too deep in debt. She took the job and as his hours were cut, she worked extra. The real rub came when she went on “business trips” with her new boss. She was bubbly and exuberant at work, cold and distant at home and in bed.
Then came the divorce and the realization that she was cold and distant only in his bed. Taylor was getting all of her now, and Ellert was getting snickering remarks made by Taylor’s college buddies.
The casino offered him a small severance package to leave. He knew they could fire him, and he would get nothing, but he had hinted that he would go to the newspaper with the story of the affair. One thing that was common to all major corporations was fear of bad press. But he was considering the casino’s off
er. It would give him a new life in a new town and a decent amount of money to start over. That was when chance had brought him to the attention of Mr. Smith.
As he sat alone in his kitchen, he looked around at the yard-sale décor of antiquated appliances and windows with no curtains. One word could describe his current lifestyle: pathetic. How had he sunk to this level? He was always an honest man and a true patriot. When his country needed him, he’d been anxious to serve. He wasn’t like that bunch of trash who had come into the service of their country merely for the financial benefits. He truly had believed in JFK’s famous words, “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”
Smith was offering a windfall of cash, but there were drawbacks. Shirl and Moon Pie. Those two were definite losers. One was a washed-up alcoholic and the other a phobic, steroid-eating idiot. Where he was earning a full third of the take, Smith had bought Shirl and Moon Pie for a song. In Ellert’s eyes they were no better than traitors. Shirl and Moon Pie were committing more than just a crime. They were forsaking an oath to protect the public and uphold the Constitution. He had never taken such an oath, and he owed his employers no allegiance.
Why shouldn’t he get some of the gravy for a change instead of the shit he had been served? He deserved more money. He was more important to Smith than those two “sellouts.” Without him, the job didn’t have a chance of success.
He rolled up the papers on his kitchen table and shoved them in a cardboard tube. He thought about the bass boat he’d bought from an estate sale for next to nothing. It was worth every penny he’d paid for it. Meaning it was crap and he felt sick about losing his cabin cruiser, but it got him to work and back for half the gas his car took, and in half the time.
Just a few more days and he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Of course, he would have to play it smart, continue to work for a month or so after it was done. And during that month he would love every single minute, watching Taylor take the blame for the failure of security, seeing the defeat and humiliation on that jerk’s face. What would his cheating ex-wife think of Taylor then?
Chapter Eleven
Jack parked his Jeep on Sycamore Street along with a line of marked police units. No personal vehicles were allowed but everyone knew it was his Jeep. He left the FBI placard on the dash and crossed to the street.
Walker and Liddell were waiting for Jack outside the executive offices’ entrance in the front of the police department and they went in together.
Jennifer Mangold, the chief’s secretary, sat behind her desk. She was forty, going on fifty, with a year-round dark tan and deep lines around her mouth from years of chain smoking. Her ability to find out secrets had kept her in her job through three administrations. Her face seldom showed any expression other than boredom or disdain, no doubt from several decades of dealing with the public.
“Hey, Jennifer,” Liddell said.
“Are you in trouble, Jack?” She motioned down the hall with her head.
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Liddell remarked.
Without expression she said, “No. He doesn’t. But there’s undoubtedly some of it waiting for you in there. The ATF chief is here and he’s not happy. He just came out and asked if ‘Murphy’ was here yet. You can go in.”
When they entered the conference room, Jack saw ATF Chief Misino alone in the room sitting by the door.
“About time,” Misino said.
“Sorry,” Jack said. My ruby slippers are at the shoe shop, asshole.
“What do you have?” Misino demanded.
“Let’s wait for the captain,” Jack suggested.
“My bosses are asking questions, and I don’t have answers,” Misino shot back. “The only thing stopping the FBI from taking this case over is because I asked them to give you some time. Except for Killian being one of mine, I don’t have a dog in this fight. We can’t even say he was working an ATF case.”
Jack knew that the FBI didn’t investigate murders unless the crimes were multistate or of federal officers. The shooting of an ATF agent would get their interest, but it was still the jurisdiction of the City of Evansville. His jurisdiction.
Misino glanced at his watch. “I thought your boss was supposed to be here.”
The door opened again and Captain Franklin came in. He sat at the head of the table. “Sorry, gentlemen.”
“There’s been a development, Captain,” Jack said and turned to Walker.
Sergeant Walker addressed the group. “I’ve got a couple of things. We found a window open on the catwalk . . .”
Misino rolled a finger in the air, as if to say get on with it.
Walker took a plastic evidence bag from his pocket. It appeared to contain a slender metal ink pen.
“Let me see that,” Misino said.
Misino turned the bag over in his hands. Pulling a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, he examined it closely and then looked at Jack. “I’ve seen one of these. What you have here is a World War II–type detonator. It’s a timer used with explosives. There’s a vial with acid inside. You crush the vial, stick it in whatever explosive you have, and clear out. They used something like this to try and blow up Hitler’s bunker.” He asked Walker, “Where?”
“The guard shack. It was stuck in a crack in the floorboards.”
Misino scowled at the device as if blaming it for his current troubles. “Any idea how long it’s been there? A day? A week?”
Walker answered. “I saw a thick film of dust on everything around it, but the detonator was clean.”
“Now, at least, we know part of the reason Killian was up on that catwalk,” Misino said.
“He was watching a deal going down across the street,” Jack said, but didn’t add that it still didn’t explain why Killian didn’t tell anyone at the ATF what he was doing.
Walker opened a manila folder and took out several 8x10 photos. He spread them out on the table. “In front of the guard shack we lifted tire impressions from two distinct vehicles. One was a car tire. Specifically a Goodyear P225/60R16 Eagle RS. Those are the same type of tires that are bought surplus from the government for police vehicles.”
“You think one of our guys parked there?” Captain Franklin asked.
“I asked everyone,” Walker said. “None of our guys were parked there, or even turned around in front of there, Captain. And those tires aren’t exclusively sold to police departments.”
“They might be from Killian’s car,” Misino said. “That doesn’t prove anything. He might have pulled in there and turned around.”
Walker said, “I checked Killian’s tires, and they are different. The second set of tire impressions came from a van, but they’re a common tire. I can tell you that both vehicles were backed in.” He pushed the photos in front of Misino. “You can keep those.”
Walker took another set of photos from the envelope. “These are from the inside of the guard shack. We found three sets of shoe prints. Two are boot impressions, different sizes, and the soles match Rocky boots.” Walker held up his boot. “I wear Rocky brand boots,” he said. “You can see the pattern is identical.”
Misino waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “They could be anyone’s boots, for Christ’s sake. My grandma probably wears Rocky boots. Are you trying to say cops are involved in this? It sounds like you’re saying a cop shot Killian. Hell! Our cars probably use those same kinds of tires, and I’m sure some of my guys wear Rocky boots. Killian might have checked the building out the day before the deal.”
“There were two sets, Chief,” Walker said patiently. “And they were different sizes. I already checked Killian’s shoes against these. He was wearing lace-up shoes, not boots.”
Captain Franklin spoke up. “Lenny, we’re not saying anything. Sergeant Walker is just telling us what he found.”
Misino was angry, and Jack couldn’t blame him. One of his guys went down, and he didn’t want to think a cop or one of his own guys was responsible. But it w
as one explanation of why Killian wouldn’t say anything to anyone.
“The evidence is what it is, Lenny,” Franklin said.
“Tony, you said there were three sets of shoe sole impressions,” Jack said.
“The third set of shoe prints are from a smooth-sole dress-style shoe. Size ten. The boots were sizes eight and a half and ten. Killian’s shoes are eleven.”
The ATF chief examined the photos. “You guys have a K-9 cross-trained for drugs and explosives, don’t you?”
“Johnny Hailman’s dog, Captain,” Jack said. “Johnny’s off duty today.”
“I’ll call him in. One of you meet him at the scene, Jack. Tony, get someone over there and tell them what’s going on.”
Misino said, “Killian wouldn’t have been there for a drug deal, Captain. If you don’t mind, I’ll get one of my guys to meet your K-9. My guy was previously Army EOD in Afghanistan.” EOD is the Army’s designation for Explosive Ordnance Disposal.
“Of course,” Franklin said. “Anything else, Sergeant Walker?”
Jack didn’t think it was such a good idea to send an ATF guy, considering what they thought might have happened. But there are EPD people all over the scene still, and it could as easily have been one of them. He said, “Tony’s got more.”
Walker took two evidence bags from his shirt pocket and passed them down the table. Inside one was a brass shell casing. In the other was a small lump of brass and lead.
“I found the shell casing on the catwalk. It was stuck in the mesh floor.” To Jack he said, “Remember that I-beam where it looked like someone had brushed against it? The casing was about five feet farther on. It’s a Winchester .40 caliber.”
“I think the shooter was standing up against the back of the I-beam. While Killian was looking out of the window, the shooter would only have to take a few steps to shoot him.”