Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  "This is preposterous." Townsend exploded. "You heard what she said yourself, Wes. She's been investigating a closed case after I suspended her from duty. Keep digging, Detective. They won't be giving you a medal for any of this."

  Kane raised two fingers to silence him. "Lieutenant Townsend has a point, but do continue, Riley."

  "We believed Beth Gervais was using the list for an article and we looked into whether she was investigating medical malpractice. Another theory had her writing a piece on parents who lost children to cancer. Neither explanation answers why Bennett had the same list. We found that the children all at one time lived at Brockway Apartments. Perhaps Gervais discovered the environment there was making them sick. To rule the possibility out, I took a Geiger counter to the apartments, where, as you know, two men attacked me and left me for dead. My assailants foolishly left it in my pocket. I'd set it to record, and it continuously chronicled the radiation level during my imprisonment there."

  I placed the device on Kane's desk and pressed a couple of buttons, then continued: "You can see it shows dangerously high levels of radiation at the Brockway Apartments."

  "She was at Brockway illegally. Anything she found is inadmissible," Townsend exclaimed.

  "Be quiet, Glen, or I'll ask you to leave." Kane nodded to me to continue.

  "I was inside the apartment building because someone left me there to die in the fire."

  Kane said, "I understand, Detective. Please continue."

  I pulled two sheets of paper from a file folder, set them in front of Kane, and said, "Kayla Ellis, the reporter, gave me the preview of an article appearing in tomorrow's Examiner for my comment. So far, I've declined to give her one. It tells the history of why there is radiation at Brockway, the illness and deaths it caused, and who is responsible. Ellis got her information off a flash drive, given to her by Matt Baker, the murdered hacker. He stole it from the computer of Abbey Mount Hospital CEO Bill Lewis. It cannot be used as evidence because the information was illegally obtained. So, I spent the morning finding legitimate sources that verify what is in the article. Kent Brickman is in custody, and when I interviewed him, he was exceptionally forthcoming. His testimony, together with documents retrieved from his hideaway in the old radiotherapy treatment center, independently verifies everything she's written."

  "She did all this while suspended. No part of it will ever be admissible in court," Townsend grumbled.

  "Shut the hell up, and let her speak, Glen." Kane fixed the lieutenant with an icy stare.

  "I'll paraphrase what Ellis wrote," I continued. "Twenty-two years ago, Buddy Olsen's construction company built a new cancer treatment center for Abbey Mount Hospital. New radiotherapy equipment was purchased, so the old treatment equipment, from the space they were closing, needed to be decommissioned. Because it held radioactive materials, the disposal was going to cost tens of millions of dollars—funds the hospital didn't have. Olsen and CEO Lewis came up with a plan. They would bury the machines in an undeveloped piece of land next to the hospital, called The Devil's Pasture. Apparently, it got its name when a family of seven died after picnicking there in 1890. The current theory says they died from food poisoning. To buy Olsen's silence, Lewis sold him the twenty-acre site for a dollar. Olsen collaborated with Sands and Bennett to construct the Brockway Apartments on the site. No one ever considered that the radiation could be a health hazard—until Doctor Walker emailed Lewis alerting him to a spike in the number of rare childhood cancers at Brockway. Lewis was naturally concerned and had Walker update him regularly with details of the cancer deaths there. He kept a list of the names of the children who'd died because of the decision to bury radioactive equipment. As it turns out, children were the most sensitive to the leaking radiation. Doubtless, adults were affected, but he only tracked children. Matt Baker found the list among the files from Lewis's computer. When he read old emails, he realized the list's significance and passed the information to Gervais for a news story. We don't know how Bennett got hold of the list, but it led to his death."

  "What do we know about Walker?" Chief Kane stepped to a side cabinet, poured a glass of water from a jug, and handed it to me.

  "We don't have any evidence that Walker had knowledge of the radiation problem at the apartments. As far as I can tell, only three people knew from the beginning—Lewis, Brickman, and Olsen. Jack Bennett found out shortly before his death. His wife, Angie, says he became very distressed and talked about coming in to make a statement. He was killed to prevent that, and the murder was covered up as a suicide. There are discrepancies in the police report. In this crime scene photo, you can see the weapon is on the wrong side of Bennett's body for him to have killed himself."

  I handed a glossy to Kane.

  "Also, no one knows where the weapon that killed Bennett came from," I continued. "His own revolver was loaded and in his desk drawer. I had the pistol retested, and Jack's fingerprints aren't even on it. However, there is contact DNA on the trigger which matches the unknown DNA found on Beth Gervais and Matt Baker. Whoever killed Bennett also murdered Gervais and tortured Baker."

  When I paused for a gulp of water, Townsend said:

  "I thoroughly investigated Jack Bennett's death, and everything pointed to suicide. If there's fresh evidence contradicting that conclusion, I'll look into it."

  Ignoring the Lieutenant's weak attempt to wriggle out of his predicament, I said, "Beth Gervais must have questioned the wrong people for her article. They murdered her to prevent her from writing about the radiation problem. Ashley Logan was killed after she saw the person who searched their house. When the killers discovered that the reporter's information had come from Matt Baker, they took his computers and tortured him, trying to get him to tell them where he had stored the data."

  I gulped another mouthful of water and said:

  "This is where the story gets complicated and why the case took so long to solve. Two people knew about the hack from Lewis's computer, and that it would reveal the conspiracy. They were both trying to contain the situation, but neither knew what the other was up to. The first was Brickman, who killed Baker when he tried to revive the hacker from a coma. A second person with Pascoe as his accomplice killed the women and tortured Baker. Neither assailant knew that Baker had left details of the conspiracy for Kayla Ellis to find in case of his death, and it became their undoing. When they did find out, they made a clumsy and unsuccessful attempt to abduct her."

  "And do we know the identity of this mystery person?" Kane leaned forward with his elbows on his desk, while Townsend looked disengaged, a grim expression on his face.

  "We picked up Marcus Pascoe overnight, and I just came from interviewing him with Detective Prentiss. When confronted with the DNA evidence linking him to Matt's kidnapping and torture, he confessed, saying he did it with Buddy Olsen. Pascoe is effectively telling us the mystery DNA belongs to Olsen, which puts him squarely in the frame for both women's murders, and for the shooting death of Jack Bennett. Pascoe is trying to paint Olsen as the ringleader saying he was paid for his involvement."

  I paused again for a gulp of water, and Kane said, "This is excellent work. We must put out a BOLO for Olsen forthwith."

  "Already done, sir. Pascoe also admitted torching the apartments with Olsen. He says Joey Sands paid to have it done so he could rebuild up-market homes. Pascoe is claiming it was Olsen's idea to leave me there after setting the fire. We'll see what Olsen has to say. They both wanted rid of me because I was getting too close to the truth. Pascoe won't admit to anything else, but the evidence says he also assisted Olsen with Logan's murder."

  "We need to bring Olsen in to hear what he has to say. Nothing good I imagine,' Kane said. "You've uncovered the culprits behind the crimes that have puzzled us all. You're reinstated retroactively, and you need to get back to work immediately."

  "But Wes, she's seriously breached policies; done all this work while she was suspended. She went off in the wrong direction too many times." Townsend
insisted.

  Kane turned to the lieutenant. "It's Chief Kane to you. You tried to take the investigation in the wrong direction, Townsend. Riley found the culprits and closed the case."

  "There's a reason for that," I said and handed two printed sheets to Chief Kane. "This is a series of emails Baker got from CEO Lewis' computer. In them, Olsen and Townsend discuss what to do about the nosy bitch detective. He's referring to me, of course. Townsend asks for the usual payment for taking care of her. We can only imagine what he intended to do to me. The emails won't stand up in court, because of how we came by them. However, the tech guys are close to unlocking Lewis's computer and recovering the originals."

  "Do I need to read these?" Kane asked Townsend.

  "I can explain everything," The lieutenant began, his voice thick with guilt. "Dottie is sick, and her treatment is going to cost a fortune. I just pointed the bitch in other directions. I never intended to harm her."

  "Stop right there," Kane shouted, his face red. "I don't want you wriggling out of this because you haven't got legal representation." He pulled a pair of handcuffs from a drawer and slid them across his desk to me. "Arrest him, Riley, and get a full statement. And I mean full. This isn't his first rodeo, but it will be his last. And see if you can talk Kayla Ellis into delaying publication for a couple of days while we sort out this unholy mess. Promise her an exclusive if you must. We don't want to see any details of this case in the news until we've arrested Lewis and Olsen. You know the drill."

  CHAPTER 55

  THE MORNING AFTER my meeting with the Chief, I didn't know my reckless courage that day would threaten my life and my career.

  The squad room was buzzing with activity. With Pascoe, Brickman, and Townsend all in custody, inspectors and state attorneys to coordinate, and search warrants to execute, there was a mountain of work. We had so much to do that Chief Kane assigned Detectives Turner and Chaplin to me full time. I grudgingly accepted their assistance and sent them to bring in Abbey Mount Hospital CEO Bill Lewis for questioning.

  Jackie Orvar and Chris Andrews had willingly taken on assignments outside the scope of their jobs. As lead detective, I used the squad room whiteboard to coordinate everyone's tasks. The Chief had floated the idea of getting help from Sacramento, but I'd rejected his offer for now. Wes Kane was not a micro-manager and accepted my decision while offering to use his position to cut through roadblocks.

  Forty-five minutes after he'd left, Turner called to say they had found Lewis dead at his home. He was slumped over the desk in his study, after apparently shooting himself in the head with a small-caliber revolver, registered to him. I managed to locate Medical Examiner Cliff Jackson in the mortuary and dispatched techs Kramer and Mason to meet him at the crime scene. I recalled Chaplin—we didn't need two detectives attending a death which was almost certainly a suicide.

  In the mid-morning, I received a call saying Officers McAdams and Smith were in pursuit of a truck owned by Buddy Olsen and were requesting back up. I was still driving the loaner Jeep from Mark Davies, so Prentiss and I jumped into his Toyota Highlander. He attached a magnetic dome light to the roof and hit the gas.

  As we sped past the Brockway Apartments, I saw a State of California trailer parked near the charred remains of the buildings, and figures in radiation protective suits combing through the debris. Kane had called in cleanup assistance from Sacramento—buried radioactive medical equipment was not your typical toxic spill and was well beyond the city's capabilities.

  Emma McAdams reported the vehicle they were pursuing had turned into the site of the new DMV building. Moments later, she said Olsen had fled into the part-built structure, and they were taking fire. She also warned us to watch out for a group of angry construction workers, who seemed to want to protect Olsen. By the time we arrived, a dozen of them were sitting on a telehandler and a couple of front loaders blocking the entrance gate. Prentiss stopped the Highlander some distance away and said:

  "Now, what do we do?" We could hear sporadic gunfire from behind the protesters. On the radio, McAdams was saying Olsen had her pinned down with Smith, behind the doors of their patrol vehicle.

  "There's another way in at the back. They probably think we don't know about it. Are you able to see if it's clear of workers?" I asked McAdams.

  "I can just make it out past the side of the trailer," she told us. "I don't see anyone there, but be advised Olsen has climbed high up on the unfinished structure. From there he can lay down fire over a wide area."

  "Copy that."

  "We need to wait for SWAT," Prentiss insisted.

  "I don't know how long McAdams and Smith can hold out," I replied. "Let's head to the back way in and see if there's anything we can do to draw fire away from them."

  I had Prentiss drive another quarter mile down the street and turn left onto a dirt road. We were soon barreling down trails, barely wide enough to accommodate the SUV. Prentiss weaved the vehicle around fallen branches and trees until we arrived at the rear of the site. The gap in the fence wasn't wide enough to drive through, so we jumped out and ducked in on foot to the sound of gunfire.

  I yelled for Prentiss to keep his head down, which brought back memories, none of them good, of my service in Afghanistan.

  "This is crazy. Can't we wait for SWAT?" he shouted, once we were inside.

  "Stay here and make sure he doesn't escape this way. I'll go in and see what I can do."

  Prentiss took a position behind a pile of lumber. I zigzagged my way to the rear of the structure, darting from one stack of building materials to another. My breath was coming in wheezes, no doubt due to the smoke damage to my lungs. I thought Olsen hadn't seen me until the dirt around me kicked up from gunfire. Once I reached the back of the structure, I flattened myself against the plywood sheathing and kept my Sig Sauer pointed toward the roof. I was counting on Olsen having to lean past the overhang to fire on me.

  On my last visit here, I'd noticed that the walls of the main stairwell were concrete, to preserve the exit for the building's occupants in case of a fire. They would offer me some protection while I figured out how to climb to Olsen's position on the roof. Sweat dripped from my forehead, and ran down my chest and back, as I inched my way there, following the same path as when I chased Pascoe almost a week earlier.

  By the time I slid through the rough opening for the building's main entrance, my breathing sounded ragged. Maybe the hospital doctor was right about taking time off. The stairs would get me as far as the second floor, but I'd need to climb a ladder left by workmen to reach Olsen's position.

  I kept my pistol aimed high, and my back pressed to the wall, as I crab-walked up the first flight of stairs. When I reached the landing, a hand and half a forearm appeared over the top of the concrete. It held a semi-automatic pistol, which Olsen fired blindly into the stairwell.

  Come on, show your head, Buddy.

  Then, my army training came into play. I Ignored the rounds thudding into the boards where I stood and took careful aim. My second shot hit Olsen's arm as evidenced by his squeal and his pistol clattering to the plywood at my feet.

  It was round one to me, though he undoubtedly had a backup weapon. I climbed the ladder slowly, keeping my pistol aimed at the top of the concrete where I'd last seen him. Four feet from the top was a plank, suspended between a beam and a rung of the ladder. Holding my pistol at eye height, I crouched on the plank and backed away from the wall where I'd last seen my quarry. Once in position, I palmed the sweat from my face and jumped up with my pistol sweeping the roof, ready to fire at him.

  Olsen was nowhere in sight.

  I climbed onto a joist and squatted, all the while sweeping my weapon left and right. A trail of bright red blood showed me where Olsen had retreated across the partially sheathed roof. There was little protection for me up there—too many opportunities for a chance shot between the openings in the trusses. To minimize the profile, I presented to my adversary, I stayed low as I moved snake-like across the ceiling jo
ists. Several of the Band-Aides on my fingers were oozing blood.

  I found Olsen at the far end of the roof, straddling one of the roof trusses. He'd removed his shirt and wrapped it around his injured arm.

  I yelled for him to drop his weapon. Olsen replied with two erratic shots fired left-handed from a silver snub-nose revolver.

  If he was looking for suicide by cop, I wasn't about to oblige.

  Again, I yelled for him to give up, but he responded by firing wildly in my direction, striking the rafters above my head. I'd counted six shots, and he began fumbling to reload the revolver.

  I'd had enough.

  Lying on my belly across the two by eight lumber sent stabbing pains through my bruises, but it allowed me to take careful aim. I wanted Olsen able to speak, so I fired and hit him in the leg. It wasn't police procedure which would have had me put two rounds into his chest. He yelped, dropped hard onto a beam, then disappeared from my view. I scrambled to my feet and stepped across the joists. He was face-down and motionless on the plywood floor of the second level. His revolver had fallen some distance away.

  To reach his prone body, I hung from a ceiling joist, then dropped the last six feet to the floor. Olsen was groaning and holding his injured leg with his left arm. I pocketed his little .38 revolver, handcuffed him, and patted him down. He wasn't carrying any other weapons.

  My captive would die from blood loss if I didn't do something quickly. The relatives of his victims deserved more than his quietly slipping into unconsciousness and death. I pulled off my shirt and tore it into strips using them to apply tourniquets to his leg and his arm. He begged me to let him die but didn't have the strength to fight me off. After securing the field dressings, I turned him over and called for an ambulance.

  The dispatcher informed me an ambulance was already in route to my location to pick up a wounded officer. Smith? McAdams? It took all my restraint not to vent my anger physically on my captive.