The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  It appeared his homemade front porch was made of balsa wood. I could see at least two holes in the flooring from my current vantage point. A section of artificial grass, crumpled and stained, nudged against the bottom step. The area just south of his address was empty, giving us a clean look to his front door. We had a pair of agents positioned a hundred feet on the other side of his trailer, and they confirmed his next-door neighbor on that side had left for work.

  But not Robert Earl. He hadn’t been seen at work in the last week, according to Brad, who had worked with Randy to set up this raid. While we had no direct evidence linking Robert Earl to the murders—at least not yet—we had cause to question him, especially with the rate at which the ring murders were taking place. And casually walking up to Robert Earl as he ambled outside to pick up the morning paper wasn’t an option, not when the FBI was involved. Mitigating all risk was priority number one, followed closely by securing the suspect without harm to him or us.

  Was it overkill? Possibly, but as I turned to look at my colleagues—including four detectives from the local police department—I could sense the anticipation of action in their movements. Men and women shuffled side to side, apparently trying to curb the flow of adrenaline. Two agents reloaded ammunition in their handguns, while two others with binoculars stood behind a cluster of trees off to my right.

  “You got your vest on, Alex?” Randy had just holstered his pistol and sidled up next to me. A bit too close for my liking, but I tried not to make a scene. The timing wasn’t right.

  I pulled open the standard-issue FBI jacket I’d swapped out for my red trench coat. I might have rolled my eyes just a tad.

  He leaned down to my ear. “I like it when you flash me.” He blew in my ear, then scooted away before I could jab my elbow in his ribs.

  “That mother—”

  “Whoa there, Alex,” Nick was just a second behind Randy.

  “Did you just see what he did? What he said?”

  He held up two hands. “I’m right here. No need to shout.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to funnel my anger at Randy into a compartment that would allow my temperament to fall below the boiling point. Taking a few deep breaths, I watched a rat scurry from under the trailer into a pile of wood. I walked a few steps away from the trailer and let the wind sober up my emotions.

  “Better now?” Nick asked from behind me.

  “Only because I’m trying to pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  I repeated the words verbatim.

  “Bastard,” Nick said.

  “Perverted bastard,” I countered then blew out a breath. “But I know now isn’t the right time to confront him.”

  “That could be why he did it. Either that, or he can’t control himself around you.”

  I turned to ensure Nick could see me crossing my eyes.

  “You don’t think I’m serious?” he said, leaning in closer to keep from being overheard.

  “I don’t know. I’m too angry to read him. He’s just a—”

  “Perverted bastard. We agree on that one. No offense, but if he’s harassing you, I bet he’s done it to others.”

  I glanced over Nick’s shoulder and watched Randy place his hands on the shoulders of two male agents, acting like the concerned parent.

  “What a piece of work.” The rush of adrenaline had ignited a flurry of images from the past that included Randy. Mostly work-related scenes, but a few in a casual setting. One stood out, where he was sitting with his arm around me in a booth, his hand moving up my thigh. I might have—

  I started giggling.

  Nick’s eyes found mine. “Alex, are you losing it on me?”

  “What? No, I’m fine.”

  He pursed his lips and glanced over his shoulder. “You’re laughing, though. Twenty seconds ago, you were ready to cut off Randy’s dick.”

  “And stuff it down his throat,” I added, followed by another spurt of giggles.

  Nick’s face began to soften. “You’re not going to share the gossip from that brain of yours?”

  “I just had a few more memories zap my mind. And one that, well…”

  “It involved Randy?”

  “I don’t know where we were, but he essentially tried to seduce me in a public place. And then I racked him.”

  Nick put a hand over his mouth and winced. “I think we know why he’s toying with you now.”

  “Maybe. Didn’t think he was smart enough to toy with anyone.”

  “True,” Nick said. “But I think you should probably go to HR. This isn’t the 1940s, you know.”

  “I thought it was the 1980s, given his porno mustache.”

  We shared another quick chuckle at Randy’s expense.

  “Nick, I can tell I’m not a big bureaucratic person.”

  “You got that right,” he said.

  “HR will just make me fill out forms, then ruin my reputation. Everyone will think I’m weak. Well, I’m not fucking weak.” Nick watched my jabbing finger like a dog following a tennis ball. “At the right time in the very near future, Randy is going to understand that if he screws with me one more time, I’m going to use his balls as target practice for my Glock.”

  Even with temperatures in the twenties and a cold, blustery wind, I could feel perspiration gather just above my lip. I wiped it clear.

  Nick held up a hand to make a point. “Let’s change the topic please. We’ve potentially got a killer sitting in his double-wide a hundred feet from us. Catching this creep now could be big.”

  I motioned for him to follow me, and we moved back toward the rest of the group, where Randy’s phone was being passed around. The circle of agents opened up just in time for us to have our turn looking at Robert Earl’s mug shot.

  “Damn, he’s ugly,” Nick said.

  The picture wasn’t flattering. Unkempt dark hair draped down his forehead just above tiny, charcoal eyes. His face looked like the surface of the moon, and he had more missing teeth than a two-year-old.

  “Bad DNA in that family tree,” I said.

  “Apparently, this guy’s lucky to be alive,” Randy said as he slipped his phone in his pocket. He then stuck his thumbs in his pants, his feet wider than his shoulders. Even at his best, he was an awkward leader. “According to his parole officer, Robert Earl has been in and out of rehab for cocaine addiction. OD’d at least twice, and doctors brought him back to life.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes, including doctors,” I said.

  Randy just stared at me for a moment. Then he turned away from me and kept talking. “He’s owned guns in the past, so we can’t be sure he doesn’t have any in ‘la casa.’” He made quote marks in the air. “On top of his addiction, he’s got anger-management issues.”

  “So we’ve heard,” Nick said.

  “How old is he again?” I asked.

  “Uh…” Randy pointed at another agent, who said, “Fifty-three.”

  I nodded. “Never killed anyone that we know of?”

  “Not as a civilian. Remember, this guy is a trained sharpshooter, which is why we need to be extra careful approaching his residence.”

  “A guy who loves to shoot. Hmm. What would motivate him to tie down middle-aged men and flaunt their infidelities?”

  “He’s fucked up, Alex. Fucked-up people do fucked-up things. You should know that, given your experience with the Bureau.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Once, when he was young, before the war. Got a divorce just after returning.”

  “Do we know if he’s attached to anyone else?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but all indications are no. More of an angry loner type.”

  “Who was his vic for the kidnap and assault convictions?”

  “Don’t know the name, but supposedly a female. Taught at the local elementary school.”

  Twisting my lips, my sights wandered over to the two agents still holding vigil with their binoculars.


  “Don’t you think that, if anything, this guy would have some type of vendetta against women, not middle-aged men who can’t keep their dicks in their pants?”

  A few snickers from the circle. Maybe they were either embarrassed or thought I was just cracking a joke. But I was serious.

  Randy huffed out a breath and crossed his arms. Then he stroked his mustache a couple of times while trying to stare me down.

  I didn’t flinch.

  “Alex, are you trying to say this isn’t the right guy? From what I understand, Brad and Roy based their profile on what you gave them.” He cocked his head and continued to glare at me.

  “The profile isn’t perfect, first of all. But we’ve overlooked a key factor here. This guy isn’t naïve or young. It doesn’t sound like he’s got any connection to a woman.”

  “Why the hell are you so fixated on a woman? No way a woman could pull off a murder like the two we’ve seen. Well, I have known a couple of military bitches who could kick ass, but outside of a handful, it just isn’t possible.”

  I could feel the penetrating stares of my colleagues.

  “Look, Randy, I don’t have a crystal ball. I can’t say for certain Robert Earl Dotson isn’t involved. But I’m just saying it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Fucking A,” he said, clapping mockingly. “No one can ride the fence better than Special Agent Alexandra Giordano.”

  No one moved or made a noise. Or maybe I couldn’t hear them because of the roar in my head. I was about ready to leap across the circle and gouge out Randy’s eyes. Instead, I counted to five, attempting to take the high road.

  I said, “We’re only going to find out for sure if we pick him up and question him. So let’s stop talking and get his ass into custody.” With that, I left the group and walked to the edge of our cover trailer.

  The agents took position, and I heard Randy give orders to engage the Dotson’s trailer, just after saying, “Alex, you have no weapon, so pull up the rear.”

  I’d yet to find time to bullshit my way past the doctor in order for Jerry to give me my weapon, so I didn’t push back. Not yet.

  Staying low to the ground, I followed behind Nick, who had his Glock drawn and aimed at the trailer. The contingent met at the trailer from all four sides. Randy gave one of the guys the signal to knock on the door.

  “Robert Earl Dotson, FBI. Open up, sir.”

  We waited for a good ten seconds but heard no response. Quick glances all around.

  The agent repeated himself, but I didn’t hear anything from inside, just wind whipping in my ear.

  “Dammit,” Randy said, gritting his teeth. He licked his lips, maybe his mustache, then pointed at the agent. “See if it’s open.”

  “But, sir, technically I’m not—”

  “Do it, or you’re working the desk for the next year.”

  The agent pulled open the rickety storm door, creating a pig-like squeal. That just added another level of anxiety. I wondered if Robert Earl might be on the other side, getting his jollies while sitting on a stained couch, pointing a shotgun at the door. Seeing a lot of hard swallows around me, I guessed others were thinking the same thing.

  The agent twisted the doorknob and nodded, then pulled his gun up. Three agents were right behind him.

  I saw him mouth, One, two, three. He and three other agents flew into the trailer, everyone yelling, “FBI. Hands up where we can see them.”

  Not twenty seconds later, the agent walked back onto the wobbly porch and shook his head.

  “Crap,” Randy said. “Turn this place upside down. Look for anything that might give us a lead on where he went. We’ve got to find him.”

  Wanting to get a better sense of Robert Earl’s life, I went inside to inspect the trailer. I stopped two steps in the door. Porno magazine pictures took up nearly every inch of available wall space, although it was difficult to see much detail. Aside from two dim lamps glowing in each corner, aluminum foil kept any outside light from seeping into the trailer. I moved out of the way of another agent walking by, then shuffled past a chewed-up ottoman.

  “Any sign of a dog or any other animal?” I asked a passing agent.

  “Nada. Not sure the conditions in this place are conducive to anything living.”

  Two more steps, then I tripped and had to catch myself on the La-Z-Boy. “What the hell?” I raised my hand, now coated with something sticky and brown.

  “Nasty,” a female agent said, walking behind me. “Kitchen sink is around the corner. But proceed with caution.”

  Holding my hand at shoulder level, I nodded and headed for the kitchen, more closely looking at the floor. The fatigue-green shag carpet was covered with clothes—men’s T-shirts, socks, boxers, dark pants—and trash, mostly fast-food wrappers and food remnants.

  Three steps from the kitchen, a wretched stench hit me like a freight train. Just then another agent ran by with a hand over his mouth. “I’m going to throw up.”

  Must have a weak gag reflex.

  Holding my breath, I walked to the sink and flipped on the water. The faucet spit out something that had a green tint, and I turned it off. I knew I’d have to use a more primitive method to clean my hand, so I walked back through the living room. My eyes spotted a notebook sticking out from under the La-Z-Boy. Using one hand, I opened it and found pages and pages of disgusting drawings of women being killed or raped, with hateful words scratched next to the pictures.

  I walked outside and approached Nick and Randy.

  “Our alleged perp has been busy drawing when he wasn’t decorating his home.” I handed the notebook to Nick.

  Randy looked on as Nick thumbed through the pages.

  “This guy has more than a few anger-management issues.” Nick stopped on a single page and held it out for me to see. “He seems rather obsessed with this name.”

  The name “Nancy” and a flurry of cuss words were etched on the paper.

  “Who knows how many people he’s killed?” Randy added.

  “I’m not sure he’s killed any,” I said, suddenly noticing a strange vehicle parked under two low-hanging trees just across the way.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Alex?” Randy exclaimed.

  Distracted for a second, I knew I had to wipe off my hand. “Randy, it’s been a pleasure learning from you on this case,” I said, extending my hand.

  He gave me an oddball look, paused a second, then shook it. “Eww,” he called out. “What is this crap?” He held up his hand.

  “It won’t kill you, but it will give you an STD.”

  He muttered something as I popped him on the back and moved around him to get a better view of the car. I pointed. “A hearse. Not your everyday car. Anyone check this out?” The black car looked to be twenty years old and had the coating of dust to prove it.

  “I don’t think so,” Nick said.

  Spotting a bumper sticker on the back window, I walked closer and read it out loud: “Don’t ask me where the dead bodies are.”

  “Someone is either into dark humor or…” Nick didn’t finish.

  I completed the thought. “Or hiding their obsession with dead bodies with dark humor.” Cupping my hands, I looked through the murky glass of the back window, and my heart skipped a beat.

  “What, Alex?”

  “A body, or a live person, I don’t know.”

  Nick drew his Glock as I took hold of the handle.

  “What did you guys find?” Randy shouted.

  Ignoring him, I nodded at Nick. “One, two, three.” I popped the handle and pulled while I jumped back a step.

  The man didn’t move. He had a mask covering his face, his arms draped over his chest.

  “Is he dead?” Randy had just jogged over.

  Nick nudged the man’s bare feet with the barrel of his gun. He didn’t wake up, but I noticed his feet were shaded blue, the shape of bricks.

  “Who’s going to check his pulse?” Nick asked, his breathing suddenly rapid.

&nb
sp; I did a double-take on my partner and then glanced at Randy. Two stool pigeons. Moving around Randy, I lifted a knee into the back of the hearse—wincing a bit from the broken-glass wounds from the day before—and took in a waft of what smelled like bleach. I paused a moment, looking for movement of the man’s chest. Nothing I could see. In glancing at his face, I saw pictures of skulls painted on the mask, one over each eye. The artwork was rudimentary, like something a first-grader might create. Even with the cover, I could see his scraggly hair.

  “I think it’s him,” I yelled to the boys while on my hands and knees.

  “Do you see any weapons?” Randy asked.

  I glanced around the back of the hearse, inside a nook next to me, and around the outside of the body. “Nothing I can see.”

  “Hurry up, check his pulse. I need to know whether to call paramedics or the ME’s office,” Randy said.

  I didn’t bother replying. Leaning forward, I brought my hand up, still searching for any sign of life…or death. If he was dead, it hadn’t been long. I pressed two fingers against the side of his neck coated with prickly hair and pockmarks, paused, and then slid my hand an inch to the left, then back the other way another inch.

  I flipped a glance over my shoulder. “The only thing I feel is his nasty neck—”

  I heard the moan and felt the tug on my wrist at the exact same moment. I nearly swallowed my tongue. The man was alive. Swinging around, I pulled back, trying to pry my arm loose, but he’d locked on with his gorilla fingers. Releasing a guttural moan, he leveraged his weight off mine to pull himself up, his beady eyes spinning out of control.

  “FBI,” I called out through clenched teeth. “Let. Go.”

  His grip only grew stronger, his eyes more intense. He was higher than a kite.

  Off to my right, I could see Randy step onto the bumper then crack his head on the frame of the car and fall back. Nick yelled at Robert Earl to stand down, but he wasn’t in a listening mood.