by Brian Shea
“Mullins. Well that is more concerning,” Simmons said.
“I know. That case was six plus years ago. Actually, it was my first big one. I can’t believe that I didn’t recognize him in the alley.”
“In your defense he looked like a wet bag of crap,” Simmons said.
“True. Although, he didn’t look much better six years ago.”
“I guess life after Nick Lawrence hadn’t been so good for Mr. Mullins,” Simmons said.
“Good ol’ Chester the Molester.”
“Catching a child abduction conviction doesn’t leave you with a lot of job opportunities on the outside. Especially when you’re on the run,” Simmons said.
“I still can’t believe that he escaped from prison.”
“Well, technically he wasn’t at the prison when he absconded,” Simmons added.
“True, but he was under watch at a counseling session.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Simmons said.
“In my humble opinion, the world’s a better place without him. To be honest if this asshole just stuck to killing pedophiles, then I don’t think we’d be putting in this much effort,” Nick said.
“That’s the piece I don’t get.” Simmons ran both hands through her red hair and closed her eyes. “He’s been near impossible to track. The homeless population is not too police-friendly and aren’t likely to report anything. And most of them have been off the grid for some time with their legal names long since forgotten. People don’t notice when they go missing. The Ferryman had always maintained a level of unpredictability in selecting his victims, and therefore he was like a ghost.”
“And even more elusive if you add in the theory that he may be one of us?” Nick half asked, and half stated.
“He’s got to be. He’s able to avoid leaving any traceable evidentiary path. His pattern changes any time I’ve closed in on him. He also knew Pentlow’s release date and was able to track down Mullins’ whereabouts,” Simmons said.
“I’m definitely starting to lean in that direction as well,” Nick said.
The thought that his mother had just been killed was hard enough to swallow, but to think that it may have been done by someone in the law enforcement brotherhood sickened him. He clenched his fists and his body tensed, allowing himself to be momentarily lost in a self-absorbed rage.
“So, both Pentlow and Mullins had a proclivity for young children. Both were your cases, and both slipped through the cracks in the legal system,” Simmons said.
“I’d say that summarizes it. Pentlow hadn’t technically slipped through the cracks. His case was pending trial. He was able to bond out, which did surprise me because of how high the judge had set it. I personally didn’t think he’d ever see the light of day.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Know what?” Nick asked.
“That he turned State’s witness on a murder case.”
“What do you mean? What murder?”
“His cellmate happened to make a jailhouse confession giving Pentlow intimate details on a cold case homicide of a prominent business man’s daughter. He was going to walk on the rape case. Maybe not scot-free, but he’d be looking at a reduced sentence or time served with lifetime on the sex offender registry. That’s what I’d call slipping through a pretty big crack in the justice system,” Simmons said.
“I didn’t know. Shit. That asshole had an eleven-year-old girl tied to a bed. And they were going to release him back into the wild?” Nick asked rhetorically.
“It’s bullshit all right. Enough to make somebody take the law into their own hands.”
Nick stopped sifting through the files. Simmons’s comment derailed his train of thought. He felt her eyes burning a hole in him. Nick knew that there was no way that she knew about his vigilante spree against Simon Montrose, the ring leader of a sex ring. But he felt like she knew, and therefore he’d fallen victim to the subconscious reaction referred to as the spotlight effect by interrogators. His cheeks flushed, and he refused to make eye contact for fear that she’d see right into the darkest depths of his soul.
“Nick?” Simmons asked.
“Sorry. I was just thinking—about my mom,” Nick said, hating himself for covering his emotional tracks with his mother’s death.
“I know what you’re going through. Trust me,” Simmons said.
Nick looked up. People always say I know what you’re going through, but in this particular case Simmons had survived a similar tragedy, and he knew that she meant it.
“Thanks,” he muttered softly.
“Mullins, too, wasn’t going to be spending the next twenty years in prison. He escaped during an off-site psych session. Now he’s dead,” Simmons said.
“That other part of his note about being the soil. It makes sense now.”
“How do you mean?” Simmons asked.
“I agree that this Ferryman is law enforcement, because he knew that Mullins was my first case. My career and reputation grew from that investigation,” Nick said.
“Well folks, we have a believer,” Simmons said, raising her hands as if she were testifying at Evangelical revival.
Nick smiled and returned to his solemn stoicism.
“And now my mom,” Nick said softly.
“Yes, she’s outside the pattern. We know he wanted to get your attention. And now we know that he wants to hurt you,” Simmons said, pausing to take a sip of her coffee. “What we don’t know is why.”
“Okay. Outside of my mother’s death, the Ferryman seems interested in killing off any of my former arrestees.”
“Correction. Only ones that have beaten the system. Beaten your case,” Simmons said.
“Well, if you’re right, then that will help narrow things down a bit,” Nick said, suddenly focused, rifling through the stack.
“How so?” Simmons asked.
Nick was silent as he focused his undivided attention on the pile before him. He stopped when he found what he was looking for. He pulled a thick folder and slammed it atop all the others. “Here’s the next victim.”
“What do you mean? How would you know that?” Simmons asked with a furrowed brow.
“You said that he’s targeting cases where the suspects have managed to beat my case?”
“That’s the pattern I’m seeing,” Simmons said.
“Well, here it is,” Nick said with an air of confidence.
“Here what is?” Simmons asked.
“The only other case that I know of where the bad guy didn’t get the maximum sentence.”
“So, you’re telling me that in your years in sex crimes you’ve only had three cases fail?” Simmons asked, cocking her head to the side in feigned disbelief.
“I’m good at what I do,” Nick said confidently and without a trace of cockiness. It was plainly a statement of fact.
“That’s impressive. Only three?” Simmons asked again.
“There was a fourth. A human trafficking ring run by a guy named Montrose. He had good lawyers and lots of money. He paid off some lower level guys in his organization to take the fall. It worked. He walked away free and clear.”
“So, there were four?” Simmons asked.
“Were being the operative word. Montrose is dead. He was killed in some gangland-style shootout at his home. As I recall, it was deemed to be an organized hit,” Nick said, ensuring that his words did not betray his secret to the profiler standing before him.
“Organized hit?” Simmons asked.
“They said it was done with military precision. Montrose and four members of his crew were taken out without a single report of shots fired. A rather difficult task to accomplish since his house was located in a rather exclusive neighborhood. I guess someone higher up in the food chain didn’t like the possible fallout of his potential risk of testifying. Or maybe it was some turf war. Either way it remained unsolved,” Nick said.
“I guess that closes that door and leaves us with who?” Simmons said.
Simmons took up the chair nearest to Nick. Her knees rubbed lightly against his as she leaned in to peruse the documents. He caught a whiff of lavender.
“What’s his story?” Simmons asked.
“Child pornography.”
“What happened to the case?”
“It was pretty tight, but there was a screwup at the evidentiary level. The hard drives seized from his home went missing from evidence during the initial phase of the trial. Prosecution backed down even though we had digital copies of the data retrieved. They wanted the originals. Scalise’s attorney won the suppression hearing, and without our files, the case was lost at trial,” Nick said.
“Evidence went missing? That’s not something that happens too often.”
“They investigated it and found that Scalise had a distant cousin in the bureau. Long story short, the cousin is currently doing time, but the drives were never recovered,” Nick said.
“Did Scalise miraculously die by a random drive-by or act of God?” Simmons jested.
“Not that I know of.”
“Well then, it sounds like we’d better get our asses over to talk with this creep,” Simmons said.
“It’s almost one o’clock in the morning,” Nick said.
“I don’t think he’ll mind the visit once we tell him why we’re there.”
Nick then remembered that he hadn’t called Anaya back after leaving the hospital earlier. Looking at the time, he deemed it far too late to call now. He would wait until morning. The thought of her being far away from Austin gave him some comfort.
20
It was quiet except for the crunch of their footsteps as they approached the double-wide trailer that was home to child porn connoisseur, Antonio Scalise. Simmons banged loudly on the door with a total disregard for the time of night. The sound resonated in the stillness. Nick cringed at the sound’s dissonance to the quiet of the impoverished housing area. A neighboring home’s light kicked on and a silhouette peered out through the blinds.
A white flickering light emanated from within Scalise’s trailer. A television was the only provider of discernable light and could be seen through the loosely hung torn screen of a filthy window. Simmons banged again, this time with more force than before. The sound carried and a dog barked in the distance.
“Whoever the hell is banging on my door in the middle of the night better have damned good reason!” a thick voice yelled from within.
They waited. Neither agent spoke. Nick heard the creak of a chair and the distinctive sound of a recliner’s foot rest being slammed into place. Footsteps banged the unstable movement of the man’s gait. One foot louder than the other, but each one struck the flooring with enough force that shockwaves reverberated along the thin off-yellow vinyl siding of the trailer’s walls.
The door swung wide. Antonio Scalise stood staring at the two agents through the dirt-covered screen of his closed storm door. His large frame and massive gut occupied the poorly lit threshold. His greasy black hair was matted down and looked as though he hadn’t showered in days. And by the rank odor trickling out its assault on their sense of smell, Nick guessed it may have been more like a week.
Scalise squinted hard, ping ponging his eyes back and forth between the agents. His gaze held a fraction of a second longer on Simmons and with each pass his glance focused more on what lay beneath her neckline. Scalise pushed the thick-lensed glasses higher up the wide expanse of his nose and into place. Nick observed as the amplified eyes of Scalise widened at the sudden recognition of the man who’d arrested him several years ago.
“You son of a bitch! You come to my house in the middle of the goddamned night! I better see some kind of warrant! Harassment! I’ll sue you blind! When I’m done with—I’ll have both your badges—,” Scalise bellowed. His rapid fire verbal onslaught took a physical toll and his ruddy cheeks flushed with blotches of red.
“We’re here to protect you. So, lower your voice and let us in,” Nick said.
“You’re not coming in my house! That’s the last thing you’ll ever do. You can tell me whatever it is you’ve gots ta say from where you’re st-st-stan-d-d-d-d-in,” Scalise ranted, spitting the words.
Nick had forgotten Antonio’s little quirk. He suddenly remembered Scalise had a stutter. An impediment worsened at moments of intense anger or frustration. Nick had exploited the weakness numerous times during his four plus hours of interrogation with the corpulent pervert.
“I don’t like seeing you again either, but we have reason to believe that someone is coming for you. You’re not safe,” Nick said.
“You’re going to p-p-pr-pro-t-tect me? You’re the asshole that t-t-tr-tried t-t-to ruin my life!”
“Not much to ruin, you fat sack of crap! You don’t want our help? Fine. Good luck with what little time you have left on this earth,” Simmons interjected.
Nick turned, smiling broadly at the fiery redhead. He was awestruck at her tenacity and wit, saying the words he’d wanted to say but didn’t.
He whispered, “You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner. Thankfully we’re on the same team.”
Simmons smiled at the backhanded compliment but never broke eye contact with the flustered obese man.
“Wait. I don’t understand. Who’s out to get me? I didn’t do nuthin’ to nobody,” Scalise said.
“I’d beg to differ, but we’re not her to talk about your past inclinations,” Nick said.
Nick noticed that Scalise seemed to reset after the admonishment by Simmons. The blotchiness of his meaty jowls faded back to the unhealthy glow of a man not accustomed to sunlight. He was impressed at her ability to redirect and had the suspicion she’d used this tactic in the past with equal success.
“We’d be happy to explain,” Simmons said.
Antonio Scalise stared blankly.
“It’d probably be a better idea to have this conversation inside and out of the earshot of your nosy neighbors,” Nick added.
“I guess that makes sense. But don’t be snoopin’ around my damn place!” Scalise snarled.
Nick smiled, “Don’t worry Antonio; we’ve got much bigger fish to catch right now.”
Scalise looked back into his trailer and hesitated only for a second before shoving hard against the handle to the storm door. The door latch clanged and the hinges grinded a resistant screech. The door looked as though it were going to separate from the frame as it swung wide, and the unhinged pneumatic door closer failed to stop the momentum. The door banged loudly against the outside of the mobile home.
Scalise muttered something about meaning to fix his door as he retreated into the trailer, allowing the agents to enter his cluttered abode. The three now stood in what could only be described as the living room. A strong aroma hung in the air. A pungent combination of cat piss and cigarettes attacked Nick’s nostrils. He took shallow breaths to negate the sour ingestion of tainted oxygen, but to no avail.
“Tell me what’s going on and be quick about it,” Scalise said.
“Trust me, we don’t want to be taking up any more of your precious time than needed,” Simmons said sarcastically.
“We’re tracking a killer and the long and short of it is we believe he’s targeted you,” Nick said.
“Me? Why?” Scalise asked, scratching flakes of dandruff out of his scalp.
“This killer has taken an interest in Agent Lawrence.”
“Good.” Scalise spat the words as he eyed him intensely.
“No. Not good. Because the killer isn’t going after Agent Lawrence directly. He seems to be going after people involved in Agent Lawrence’s cases. In particular, people that he’s arrested who beat the system. You fit a short list of people that meet that criteria, Mr. Scalise,” Simmons said.
“You bastard! First you destroy my life and then you b-b-b-br-bring this d-d-down on me?”
“We’re not going down that road again, Mr. Scalise,” Simmon
s said firmly.
Scalise huffed and began teetering back and forth as if suddenly unbalanced. To Nick the overweight pedophile looked like a weeble-wobble punching bag of his childhood. Nick felt a sudden desire to punch the wide face of the man in front of him. He refrained from indulging and let the rage subside as he watched several trickles of sweat race down the man’s forehead. It was cold in the trailer but apparently not to the four-hundred-pound man.
“So, what are you going to do about it? Do you have a plan to catch this asshole?” Scalise asked.
“Watch and wait,” Simmons said.
“Watch? And what? Wait for him to kill me?”
“Watch you. Watch your house. And yes, wait,” Nick said.
“That’s it? A killer’s out there somewhere and you’re just going to sit around on your asses and wait? My tax dollars hard at work,” Scalise said, unnerved.
Simmons made a show of surveying the home. “I don’t think your tax dollars are doing much for our salaries.”
“Screw you lady!” Scalise fired back.
“As to sitting around waiting. Well, that’s the thing. We don’t know who this killer is. So, we really have no choice,” Simmons said.
“Jesus,” Scalise said through labored breaths.
“How many doors?” Simmons asked.
“Huh?” Scalise asked, lost in thought.
“How many doors does this place have?”
“Oh. Um… two.”
Scalise wiped the moisture from his brow and transferred it to his stained gray sweatpants, adding to the collection of other stains. “Only one locks. The front.”
“So, the back door doesn’t lock?” Nick asked.
“I haven’t gotten around to fixin’ it yet. It’s on my list of things to do.”
“Been busy cleaning?” Simmons said sarcastically, surveying the filth.
“Screw off!” Scalise said weakly.
“Just lock the door after we leave. We’re going to be close by keeping watch,” Nick said.
“Don’t change up your routine. We don’t want to tip our hand. Not sure we’ll get another opportunity like this.” Simmons turned to leave.