Son of a Gun (A David and Martin Yerxa Thriller - Book 2)

by Ed Markham

  Martin took another sip from his whiskey. “I can still smell the Hoppe's gun oil and the insides of the old Ford BuCars they had us tool around in.” A faint smile creased the sides of his face, but faded quickly. “All us tenderfoots were partnered with a veteran agent, and I spent that first year learning the ropes from Bill Gertrude, who worked most of our office’s missing persons cases.”

  David had heard that name plenty of times from the stories his father told him growing up. He knew Martin had looked up to Bill Gertrude, and the two still spoke from time to time, though Bill was long retired and living somewhere in the Southwest—Arizona or New Mexico.

  Martin ran his fingers along the side of his cocktail glass. “In June or July of that first year, the supervisor in charge assigned Bill and me to a case involving two dead boys, which eventually turned into four dead boys. Each was missing for a few days before his body turned up. Local newspapers started a public frenzy over the Babysitter.” An acid chuckle escaped his lips. “They called him that because he took such good care of his victims. All the boys were found with full stomachs and clean clothes. By the time the fourth boy turned up dead, the city and suburbs were on lock down. Parents were terrified. Stranger danger was hammered into the head of every adolescent in Southeastern PA. A garbage truck driver nearly beat a man to death when he spotted the guy talking to two kids. The guy turned out to be a traveling salesman up from Maryland, lost and asking for directions. He had no idea about the dead boys.”

  Martin paused to take another swallow of his drink. “At one point, one of the missing kids’ mothers went on the local news to plead for her son’s life. She said all she wanted in the world was to have him back so she could make him his favorite dinner—a hamburger with baked beans on the side. When the body turned up two days later, the coroner found remnants of that exact meal in his stomach.” He scowled and spun his drink roughly on its coaster. “We never told the mother that, of course.”

  David listened to his father without speaking, not wanting to interrupt or ask questions until he’d finished.

  Martin patted the table with his fingertips. “A few weeks after Bill and I started working the case, we received a tip on a Conshohocken man seen driving in Upper Darby right around the time police there discovered one of the boys’ bodies. An acquaintance saw the guy and waved, and told us he seemed startled to be recognized. Not much to go on, but Bill and I were desperate for a lead, so we decided to check it out. The guy was a Vietnam vet, recently divorced, with a newborn son. The psychological profile in his discharge records indicated severe PTSD, though that wasn’t something we had a very good grasp on, even by ’78. He’d been in and out of VA hospitals and psych wards since the end of the war. So we had the local blues stay on him. They’d formed a task force with the state police, and they were even antsier than we were to make an arrest. When they observed the guy pull up along side a young boy walking home from school in Mount Airy, they picked him up despite our orders not to make a move.”

  “James Ganther?” David asked.

  Martin nodded. “He was out of work and had no alibi. He also fit the profile our psych analysts had worked up. Our people somehow predicted he’d be a drug user and a veteran, a white male between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. So we had about two dozen forensic technicians scour Ganther’s place around the clock for four days. They found a lot of heroin and cannabis, and some graphic photographs of Vietnamese children killed by American soldiers. But we didn’t find any evidence related to the missing boys.”

  David kept his mouth shut as he watched his father take another drink.

  Martin continued, “We had proof that Ganther had transported and sold narcotics in New Jersey, and he was facing up to sixty years in prison for interstate drug trafficking. We offered him a plea deal if he’d take a polygraph about the murders, but he refused. So we offered him the chance to walk on the drug charges—probation only—if he’d take the lie detector test. He still said no. And remember, this is back when polys were considered admissible in court. The judge ended up giving him thirty-five years. The murders stopped.”

  Neither man spoke until David asked, “And you think James Ganther might have something to do with our investigation?”

  Martin was quiet for a time. “Each one of those boys killed in ’78 was laid out in plain sight, just like the kids are now. And each of the boys Ganther killed was an only child from a good home. Loving parents, nice upbringing. Again, same as we’re dealing with now. And each was shot once through the back with a .45 caliber cartridge.”

  “Masks?” David asked.

  Martin shook his head. “Not on the victims. But we found a painting hanging in Ganther’s house—something he’d done himself. It showed five or six American soldiers walking through a Vietnamese rice field, holding up their M14s and shooting at a group of screaming children who were trying to run away. I remember the children’s faces were vivid and terrified. But each of the soldiers looked exactly the same.”

  He paused, and tipped his empty cocktail glass forwards and backwards. “They were all wearing masks, David. White, expressionless masks.”

  Wednesday, November 6

  Chapter 16

  CARSON AFFELDT WOKE when he heard the footsteps pass overhead. The sound was faint, but somehow he knew the bearded man was about to open the basement door and call down to him.

  Since Carson had first awakened to find himself in the subterranean room, the man had visited him twice. During those visits he’d brought Carson food. He’d also said three words to him: “Turn away,” and, “Play.”

  Play, Carson thought as he looked around the room. There was no natural light, but there were two lamps, which he’d left burning all night long. At least, he thought it had been nighttime. There was no way to tell. Both of the times the man had brought food it had been the same meal: a baloney sandwich and a glass of water.

  The floor of the basement was gray concrete covered in places by patches of carpet. The walls were paneled in fake wood. A large television sat on a stand a few feet from the mattress where Carson had slept; a Sony icon drifted slowly across the screen, indicating the DVD had ended. Old Sega Genesis and Nintendo video game systems were hooked up to the television, and dozens of games sat in the lower compartment of the TV stand.

  The basement also featured an air hockey table, which squatted near the base of the staircase, as well as a mint-green couch and a bookcase filled with comics, DVDs, and sports magazines. A small bathroom was tucked into one corner of the room. It contained a toilet and a few dozen rolls of toilet paper. No shower, no sink, and no mirror.

  Play, Carson thought again.

  He’d yet to touch the video games or any of the other stuff apart from the TV, which he’d switched on to help fight off the loneliness. He’d been disappointed to find there was no cable or satellite; a blue screen had stared back at him. At first he’d turned it off, but then he’d felt freaked out by the quiet, and so he’d retrieved one of the movies from the bookshelf—Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. He’d let it play while he sat on his mattress in the corner of the room, thinking about what had happened to him the previous afternoon and what might be coming next.

  Part of him wanted to play the games or read the comics, anything to take his mind off of what was going on. But another part of him—the stubborn, adolescent part—didn’t want to touch this guy’s stuff.

  Fuck him, Carson thought, and he smiled to himself. Thinking it made him feel tougher, more in-control. He thought his friends would laugh to hear him tell off the man who’d put him down here, and he thought to text them. But then he remembered his backpack and cell phone were gone, stashed away somewhere by the weirdo upstairs.

  Carson shivered. He was a little frightened, but mostly he just felt bored and inconvenienced. Nothing really bad had ever happened to him in his life, and so he didn’t really believe anything bad would happen to him now. He was sure someone would help him—someone would rescue h
im and throw the sicko that had kidnapped him in prison. Just a matter of time, Carson told himself.

  He sat cross-legged on the edge of the mattress, staring at the white panels of the drop ceiling and chewing his fingernails—a habit his mother hated. He waited, hoping he wouldn’t hear the sounds that would precede the man’s arrival. But the sounds came anyway.

  He heard the electric whir that signaled the bolt locks were sliding in their tracks. One. Two. The heavy door swung open.

  “Turn away,” the man said from the top of the stairs.

  His voice sounded muffled and adenoidal, though it was definitely the voice of the man Carson had met in the woods. He remembered that voice clearly, though his memory of the man’s bearded face was much blurrier.

  He did as he was told and turned away from the stairs. He could hear the man walk down a few steps and then stop.

  “What am I doing here?” Carson asked.

  The words surprised him. He hadn’t known he would speak; it just came out. He thought his voice sounded confident and strong.

  The man didn’t answer.

  After a few seconds of silence, Carson heard him descend a few more steps, and then he heard the sound of the man setting down the food tray. He started to turn to look at the man, and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a white shield of a face.

  The growl that reached out at him across the basement was furious and terrifying. “FUCKING TURN AWAY,” the man roared.

  Carson’s eyes and head snapped back to the wall. He felt his stomach crowd up into his throat. No one had ever yelled at him like that.

  He stared into the corner of the room, holding his breath and listening to his heart slamming in his ears. Tears welled in his eyes.

  He exhaled when he heard the man walk back up the stairs. He waited for the sound of the door closing, but before it came, the man spoke again. His voice was much calmer now.

  “Play,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  “HOW WAS IT today?”

  As he spoke, David poured himself a cup of coffee from his father’s pot. He glanced at the printouts on James Ganther, which were spread out on Martin’s kitchen table alongside his own laptop. Beyond the table and outside, in his father’s garden, David could see the vegetable and herb plants were white with frost.

  “Loud,” Lauren said. “I was on the range for almost two hours. They had us shooting 870s most of the time. I hate shotguns. My elbow and shoulder are sore from all the recoil.”

  “How’s your instructor?”

  Her laugh caught him off guard. “A riot,” she said. “His name is Fritz Markowitz”—she pronounced the name with gusto—“and they transplanted him down from Quantico for our class. You haven’t had him, have you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well you’d remember, because he’s a character. And it’s obvious he’s been at this a long time.” David could hear her smile through the phone. “Some of the younger guys thought it’d be funny to load their silhouette targets upside-down while we were doing our pistol work on the twenty-five-yard range. When they raised the targets, everyone looked at Markowitz for a big reaction. He didn’t even flinch. He just spat in the dirt and said, ‘Okay, stand on your fucking heads and load.’ That brought the house down.”

  Lauren laughed again, and David smiled. He said, “I’m sure he’s seen that prank a few times.”

  “Yeah, like every week.”

  “You fire any possibles yet?”

  A possible was the FBI term for a perfect shooting score. David knew Lauren was one of the best shots at the FBI, and shooting a possible wasn’t out of the question.

  “No,” she said, sounding frustrated. “I came close a few times at Quantico, but I’ve never pulled it off.” She paused, and he could hear her grinning through the phone. “How about you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “So. Tell me about the investigation.”

  Again he glanced at the Ganther printouts on the kitchen counter.

  He and his father had spent an hour reviewing the old files. They included everything the FBI had compiled on James Ganther back in the 1970s, but nothing new. Martin said Omar Ghafari was still working on an update, and would have it to them this morning.

  “Not much to tell at this point,” he said.

  “Is your dad still acting weird?”

  David’s eyes moved toward the stairs leading up to his father’s room. “No. He told me what that was all about.”

  “And?”

  “He worked another child homicide case twenty years ago. There are similarities to what’s happening now.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No I’m not. Pop and his partner back then were pretty sure they’d identified their man, but they couldn’t find anything concrete. They arrested him on some unrelated drug charges, and he refused a polygraph they offered in exchange for a plea bargain. After his arrest, the murders stopped.”

  “What’s the guy up to now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting on his updated file from Omar.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before she said, “Okay, gotta run. I need to be on the range in six minutes.” Her voice filled with mock enthusiasm. “We get to shoot M16s this morning!”

  “Shoot straight, Butch.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He set his phone on the kitchen counter and stood for a minute, smiling to himself at the thought of Lauren handing the male agents their asses on the shooting range. Then he took a seat at the kitchen table. After logging in to his laptop and connecting to the FBI’s secure network, he brought up his email and saw that Omar had sent over the updated file on James Ganther.

  According to the most-recent reports, Ganther was alive and healthy, and lived a few hours from Philadelphia in one of the low mountain towns of rural Pennsylvania.

  The file photo, taken when Ganther was released from prison in 2008, showed a small, light-haired man with a short-cropped blonde beard. Ganther looked young for his years—much younger than David’s father, though the two were about the same age. As he squinted uncomfortably into the camera’s lens, Ganther’s pupils looked like black bullet holes in his pale face.

  Chapter 18

  “JAMES SCOTT GANTHER. Age sixty-four. Five-foot-seven, one hundred fifty-eight pounds. Hair blonde. Eyes brown. Released from the federal correctional institution at Allenwood June 18, 2008.”

  David read the file out loud as Martin paced near his kitchen table, coffee mug in hand. He went on, “Current residence is just outside of Pleasant Ridge, PA, near State College.”

  “What’s he been up to since he got out?” Martin asked.

  “From what this file tells us, not much. After leaving prison he applied for and was granted veteran’s benefits for his PTSD. He’s had some sporadic work painting houses, but otherwise he’s been living off of his benefits pay for the last six years. No cell phone. No Internet. No credit cards. No bank account activity for over a month.”

  David read over Ganther’s prison record and psychological profile. “The FCI psychiatrist diagnosed severe PTDS as a result of his experience in My Lai, South Vietnam.”

  “My Lai,” Martin said, shaking his head. “Jesus, I’d forgotten about that. A national disgrace.”

  “Ganther said he witnessed American soldiers shoot women and children, and that he killed one child himself—a young Vietnamese boy. He blamed the United States government and the American public for his presence in Vietnam. He also said he was half-insane with fatigue, drugs, and illness at the time of the massacre.”

  David read on. “Married in 1968, just before he enlisted. Divorced in 1978. One child. Never remarried. His first wife, Gloria, is in Cartwright, Pennsylvania, an hour west of here. Doesn’t look like they’ve had much contact since his release. She never remarried. Ganther’s son Ian lives in Bethlehem, PA. Ganther also has a younger brother, Phil, who lives in Allentown. Not much on either Phil or Ian here. Both of Ganther�
�s parents are deceased.”

  Martin was quiet as David read through the rest of Ganther’s prison file and psychological profile.

  “The prison psych says he was quiet and well-behaved during his time at Allenwood. Hasn’t had any problems with the law since getting out. She notes Ganther was still struggling with his PTSD at the time of his release, but she didn’t consider him a threat to himself or others.”

  “Any artwork?” Martin asked.

  David clicked through Ganther’s file and then sat back abruptly from his computer. He let out a long breath as he stared at the images on his computer screen. He motioned for Martin to take a look, and said, “Apparently these are just a few examples. There are hundreds more.”

  The photographs showed several charcoal sketches depicting U.S. soldiers, alone or in small groups. In one of the sketches, three soldiers played cards on a small folding table near a tent. The men sat with relaxed postures, and one soldier held up a card—a deuce of clubs—as though he were about to slam it down on the discard pile stacked on the tabletop. One of the other two soldiers was in the act of tossing his whole hand away in disgust. Although their hands, arms, and necks were finely rendered and alive with muscle and tendons, each of the soldiers’ faces was a white, emotionless mask—unlined and inhuman.

  In all of the sketches, the soldiers’ visages were identical. All except the last. In this picture, a lone soldier stood at the edge of a field, his body almost blending into the dense jungle at his back. With his legs wide apart, the soldier held his rifle at his side, the muzzle pointed at the ground. His white face stood out against the dense foliage behind him. Unlike the other sketches, the soldier’s mask was frowning, and a teardrop ran down its cheek.

  Martin turned away from the sketch as David took a photograph of it with his phone.

  “I’ll have Omar request our warrants and dig up more info on Ganther’s family,” he said. “You and I are headed to Pleasant Ridge.”