Dead Drop

by Jack Patterson

  What’s this?

  He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and started to roll up Fisher’s sleeves to his shoulders.

  “Hey, Manny,” Kittrell yelled at one of the officers working the scene. “Come here. I want you to look at something for me.”

  “What is it?” Manny said as he knelt down next to the body.

  “You recognize this tattoo?”

  “It looks familiar.” Manny Romero gazed off into the distance as he tried to recall where he’d seen it. He started to snap his fingers. “I know. I remember now. It’s the same tattoo from that gang we busted at the docks two years ago. They were into all kinds of stuff. Extortion, gambling, bribery, drugs, trafficking. If there was something or someone to exploit, they would be found nearby.”

  “So you didn’t get all those guys?”

  Manny shook his head. “A few of the ring leaders are still in prison, but most of the grunt workers either got a slap on the wrist, three to six months in the slammer at best.”

  “You think he was one of the ones you rounded up?”

  “Perhaps, but his name isn’t ringing a bell.” Manny shrugged. “Doesn't mean anything though. I have a hard time remembering what I ate for dinner last night.”

  Kittrell chuckled and slapped Manny on the arm. “Thanks for the help. And don’t announce this as a murder-suicide just yet. Fisher’s body is lying in an awkward position.”

  Manny stood up. “So what happened, oh great crime scene whisperer?”

  Kittrell waved off Manny. “I’ve got a theory—one you’ll hear about later once I confirm a few things.”

  Kittrell took his gloves off and snapped a few more pictures of the scene with his phone. His particular interest centered around Fisher’s body. The two other dead cohorts didn’t interest him, at least not yet.

  As he drove back to the precinct, Kittrell tried to assemble his theory. At the moment, it was weak, but if his hunch proved him correct, he’d be able to make his case and hopefully receive Chief Roman’s blessing to pursue the line of investigation. He wasn’t certain of anything at this point, but he knew there were enough suspicious elements to this bank robbery case to realize that there was more beneath the surface—perhaps much more than anyone ever imagined.

  When he entered the precinct, Kittrell was met by Chief Roman.

  “Please tell me I can close this case by telling the press that these greedy sons of bitches all died in a shootout with one another?” Roman said before taking a sip from his coffee. “I’m so tired of everyone crawling all over me about this case.”

  Kittrell held up his finger as he rushed past Roman. “Not yet.”

  Roman threw his head back as anguish washed over his face. “I swear, Kittrell, if you’re wrong about this, I’m going to have you writing parking tickets on Market Street for the next six months.”

  Kittrell mumbled something unintelligible. He wasn’t listening to Roman—or anyone else, for that matter—all he cared about was looking at the footage from the robbery. A few clicks on his mouse and he was watching the images from the surveillance video on his screen. After fifteen seconds, he saw all he needed to see.

  “Sorry, Chief, but you can’t close the case yet.”

  “Please, Kittrell, for the love of God, can you tell me why?”

  Kittrell stood up and walked toward his boss as a wry grin eased across his face. “Fisher, the suspect who we think shot and killed both Sid Westin and the security guard, was indeed there at the scene.”

  “So, it's over? We did it, right?”

  Kittrell held up his index finger. “Not so fast, Chief. If you want to close the robbery, fine. Consider it closed. Those three dead bodies at Harrison Street were likely all involved in the robberies. Fisher was wearing the same pair of shoes, and you will likely find that the gun in his hand matched the one fired at the robbery.”

  “So what’s the hold up here?”

  Kittrell walked a few steps back toward his desk and tilted his screen toward Roman. The image frozen on the screen was an enlarged and enhanced image of Fisher.

  “What am I looking at here?” Roman asked.

  “Fisher was left handed.” He pointed at the screen. “See. He’s waving his gun around with his left hand.” Kittrell clicked the mouse and the security video from the bank moved forward, depicting Fisher shooting Sid Westin and then the security guard. “At the scene on Harrison Street, he’s holding the gun in his right hand—and the entry wound from the bullet to his head is from the right side.”

  “So maybe he didn't commit suicide. Maybe it was a shootout and he got shot in the head.”

  “Nice theory, Chief, but I know that’s more wishful thinking on your part than good police work. And I inspected the gunshot wound to Fisher’s head. It was from point blank range. No way a shot from across the room created an entry wound like the one I found.”

  “So, what's your theory, hot shot?”

  “I think someone who Fisher knew and trusted was there with them. Whoever our mystery man was made quick work of the other two guys before shooting Fisher.”

  “Someone he knew and trusted?”

  “Someone he trusted very well. Someone he trusted with his life.” Kittrell paused to let the theory sink in with Roman. “This was a cover-up job. You can celebrate catching Sid Westin’s killer if you like, but there’s more to this case—a lot more.”

  CHAPTER 28

  CAL DIALED BUCKMAN’S NUMBER and crossed his fingers. With the way Buckman dismissed him from covering the story after Ramsey leaked edited footage of their altercation, he considered getting back on the story a long shot—but he had to try. Cal’s ace in the hole of outing Ramsey as the Emerald City King would only make him look petty and certainly wouldn’t guarantee that Buckman would give him the story back.

  “Don’t you ever take any time off?” Buckman groused after he answered his phone. “I figured you’d be watching basketball somewhere.”

  “If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s that good reporters never sleep on a big story.”

  Buckman chuckled. “Problem for you is you don’t have one right now.”

  “Maybe you’ll disagree with me after what I’m about to tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I just got a call from one of my sources who told me that Seattle FC’s Tim Peterson is about to be suspended for PED usage. He tested positive for HGH.”

  “Oh, drug tests and pro sports, the gift that keeps on giving. When are these leagues just going to say, ‘Screw it. Put whatever you want in your body. See if we care?’”

  “Aren’t they pretty much already doing this with the exception of an occasional suspension of some no-name player as a show of good faith?”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Do I have my story back?”

  “Cal, we’ve already been through this. What you did to Ramsey was deplorable—assaulting a fellow co-worker and—”

  “Assault is such a strong word. Besides, I wasn’t the only one throwing punches.”

  “Whatever. The point is you knew better, and I’ve got a competent journalist who can take this story from here.”

  Cal sighed. “Maybe next time I’ll think twice about passing along my scoops.”

  “I’d rather you think twice about punching a co-worker.”

  “Oh, admit it, Buckman. You’d love to punch Ramsey’s smug face.”

  “Wanting to do something and actually doing it are what separates a civilized society from a criminal one. We don’t live in the Wild West any more, Cal. You need to learn a lesson.”

  “Fine. You win. I’ve learned my lesson. But you know Ramsey’s gonna screw it up. Don’t act like he’s going to be able to deliver this for you and meet your high standards.”

  “Well, at least he’s not punching anyone in the face. I’ll take what small concessions I can with him for now.”

  “Speaking of getting punched in the face, I wanted to let you kno
w I got assaulted in an alley yesterday.”

  Buckman was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. Just a few bruised ribs.”

  "Glad it was nothing worse. What was it about?”

  “Apparently, somebody named William Lynch didn't like the fact that I insinuated that his son used performance enhancing drugs.”

  “So, he had someone beat you up over that? Seems petty.”

  “I agree, of course, as do my aching ribs. But that doesn't change what happened. Think you can tell Josh to write a glowing story about him if he wins the game tonight for Seattle FC?”

  “This isn't like you, Cal. Normally, you'd want to go after someone who did something like that to you. What's going on?”

  “I just need time to plot my revenge.”

  “Against William Lynch? Good luck with that.”

  "So, do you want me to go after him or not? I'm getting mixed signals here.”

  "It's simple: I expect you to go after him, but I wish you wouldn’t."

  “Again, my ribs agree.”

  "Well, rest up and don’t be stupid—and treat your co-workers better. If you did, you'd be writing a much sexier story.”

  Cal hung up and let out a frustrated scream over Buckman’s position of giving Ramsey this story. His boss had dug his heels in—and justifiably so. But it didn’t lessen the pain of knowing that Ramsey was about to steal his scoop and probably win an award or two in the process.

  ***

  EDDIE RAMSEY HUNG UP on his call from Buckman. Cal’s misfortune was turning out to be one of his greatest breaks since he’d joined The Times. While he secretly admired Cal professionally, Ramsey remained professionally jealous. He was convinced he was every bit as good of a reporter and writer as Cal Murphy, but he never seemed to get the breaks Cal did—until now. He tried to ignore the fact that his tip, the one that was going to give him the material for an award-winning story, came from Cal by way of Buckman.

  Ramsey’s job was simple: Get someone close to the Seattle FC front office to confirm the fact that Tim Peterson was about to be suspended by the league for illegal drug use. After that, Ramsey could pad the story with quotes about the FBI investigation into how Rebecca Westin was distributing HGH and let readers connect the dots for themselves. If he could figure out a way to provoke the reader to think that this potentially had something to do with the reason Sid Westin was killed in an armed robbery, all the better. But first things first—getting confirmation about the suspension.

  Since Ramsey was devoid of any insider connections on the club—and Buckman wanted to keep his beat reporter as far away from this kind of story as possible—he started by calling the club's media relations director, Paul Holloway.

  “Who told you that?” Holloway screamed.

  “A credible source,” Ramsey answered smugly.

  “You need new sources.”

  “That's not exactly a denial, Paul.”

  “Do I need to tell you that this team is still grieving the loss of one of its most beloved players? And you're going to pick now to stir the pot?”

  “So, that would be a yes then? Peterson is about to be suspended for PED usage?”

  “I swear, Eddie, you and Cal Murphy will never get credentials over here again. If I ever see you near our practice facility, I’ll have you thrown off the premises for trespassing.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Doing your job, my ass. You think you're going to win the admiration of all your little journalist buddies if you break a big story. But the truth is you're just a hack—and don't you forget it.”

  The line went dead.

  Ramsey set his phone down and stared out the window for a moment. That's when he began to conjure up a conspiracy theory out of little more than a hunch and one emphatic rejection for a confirmation. Either Holloway was being evasive or Cal Murphy was trying to strike back and get Ramsey in trouble with Buckman in retaliation for getting yanked off the story. Ramsey chose to believe his second theory.

  He called Buckman back and filled him in on what was happening.

  “Well, find another source," Buckman said. "Do you think if you try one guy in the organization that you’ve performed due diligence? I guarantee you Cal would engage at least fifteen people in a conversation about it before he wrote a story like that—even if the first one confirmed it.”

  “Yeah. About Cal—I think he’s trying to sabotage me. He's just dying to get back on this story.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. You've been reading too many conspiracy novels.”

  “No, I swear. It's true. He did this to set me up. If Holloway sticks to his word and refuses to let me near any of the players, how am I supposed to cover this story? It’s going to be a headache—and that’s only if we're lucky.”

  “Hmmm.” Ramsey hoped that Buckman was giving pause to consider his theory. Ramsey made sense for once.

  “Let me talk to Cal and get a feel for him on this one.”

  “Great,” Ramsey said. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  ***

  CAL COULDN’T BELIEVE BUCKMAN had lost trust in him so easily. If he was honest with himself, he knew he only had himself to blame. He should've never been in that position to begin with. If Kelly had been around to keep him focused, perhaps it never would've happened. He missed her and wished she and Maddie would hurry up and return home. But in the meantime, he had to quit pining and move on. He figured it was only a matter of time before Ramsey screwed something up again, and Buckman might be willing to swallow his pride and get him back on the story.

  Speak of the devil!

  His phone buzzed with a call from Buckman.

  He's probably calling me back to ask me to write the story.

  “Buckman, it's like you’ve got nothing to do on this fine spring afternoon but call me and torture me.”

  “Save it, Cal. I'm not in the mood right now.”

  “What's going on?”

  “I just got off the phone with Ramsey, and he said that Holloway stoned him on the Peterson story. He wouldn’t confirm it for him.”

  “And you’re surprised?”

  “Who’s your source, Cal? Just let me know so I can have Ramsey confirm with him directly.”

  Cal took a deep breath, afraid to utter his next few words. “No, Buckman, I'm not gonna do that. I can't break trust with my source. That's the most valuable thing I have right now with anyone I work with.” He paused for a moment. "I can't even believe you'd ask me to do that.”

  “Damn it, Cal. Why are you being so ornery about this?”

  “Because this story deserves a pro, not a hack like Ramsey. What did he call, like one person? And then he runs back to you, telling you that everyone is being mean to him?”

  Buckman was silent for a few seconds. “If you don’t give me your source, I'm going to have to assume that you invented this to get back at Ramsey.”

  “Wha—How? I can't even believe I'm hearing this.”

  “And I can't believe that you're acting the way that you are. It's not like you, Cal.”

  Buckman hung up.

  Cal stood up and paced around his living room before letting out a few primal screams. His frustration level had been rising for a while with Buckman and Ramsey—and now he had to release some tension. Before Cal had time to consider the best way to release that tension, his phone rang again, this time with a call from a surprising person: Jonathan Umbert.

  “Hi, Cal. I heard that you were looking for me while I was gone,” Umbert began. "But I'm back now.”

  “Where were you again? London?”

  “Yes, now I can’t discuss details or name names at this point, but it appears like Seattle FC might be getting some fine up and coming talent next season.”

  “That’s not why I stopped by your office.”

  “Yes, I heard that you were accompanied by a detective. Is everything okay? Is this about Sid? Have the police found anything yet?”

/>   “Not yet, but they’re close. I was just consulting with the Seattle PD on the case since I’m no longer covering it.”

  “Well, just let me know any time. My door is always open.”

  “How late is it going to be open this evening?”

  “Well, I'm just going to be down here watching some basketball on the big screen in my office and catching up on some paperwork. Feel free to stop by this evening if you like.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m headed your way.”

  Cal hung up and dashed over to his laptop. He had an idea but needed to confirm it. He quickly called up the documents he’d received from the FBI regarding Dr. Bill Lancaster and the HGH distribution allegations. He remembered that there were a number of players in the Seattle area who were the supposed recipients of the illegal drugs. However, Cal had never been able to make a common connection. Initially, he suspected that maybe it was a doctor who consulted with the all the city's pro sports teams. But there wasn't one. Then he wondered if it was a sports medicine doctor who worked with athletes who’d been injured or maybe even a therapist. Yet in his cursory research, he couldn't find any connections.

  Then he stopped and started typing the name of each athlete listed in the report and researching them again. With each name, he began to realize a common denominator.

  A smile spread across his face.

  Gotcha!

  He picked up his phone and dialed Kittrell’s number.

  “Wait until he hears this.”

  CHAPTER 29

  CAL DIDN’T HESITATE to put his basketball viewing on hold. He was already so far behind in The Times’ office pool that he was sure Sandra in accounting might have a legitimate claim on his job by the end of the tournament. He drove toward Umbert’s downtown office, which happened to be only a few blocks away from the Seattle PD’s main precinct.

  Parked in the garage, Cal waited for Kittrell. After a few minutes of listening to the end of the game between Duke and Purdue, Cal shielded his eyes when Kittrell rolled into the parking spot next to him. He got out of his car and waited for Kittrell to do the same.