Still perched on its stand was the ken blade, its blade polished to a gleam, the new finish on it free of any imperfections. Laid before it on the ground was the rifle, the body of it pulled free from the gun sleeve, stretched across the black vinyl.
If the man was to be believed, the weapon was completely untraceable. That made it imperative that no matter how badly the Boat Man wanted to fire it, regardless of how much he wanted to check the accuracy, to feel the interworking of the mechanism pressed against his shoulder, he couldn’t risk it.
Already he knew the police were starting to close in. Leaving a trail of spent shell casings or slugs to be dug out of trees somewhere would not behoove him or the goal he was so close to accomplishing.
Even with the noise suppressor on the end, no gunshot was ever truly silenced. They had a distinctive sound that people would hear, would remember, that they might even come to investigate for themselves.
The targets of his mission were a very distinct list of people, a list that would be two shorter in just a few hours. There was no need to put anybody else in the compromising position of becoming collateral damage, no point in forcing himself to become like the men he was hunting.
Fighting his every inner desire, the Boat Man refrained from practicing with the gun, trusting it was ready to go as he now toted it up to the fourth floor of the abandoned schoolhouse, the same one he had sat and observed so many nights before.
Despite having spent countless hours in direct eyesight of its crumbling edifice, it was the first time ever having set foot inside.
The body of the building was laid out much the way the outside would suggest, a central staircase crossing back and forth through the middle, a wide landing encasing it. Four classrooms made up the bulk of every floor, one in each corner.
Sticking to the stairs, the Boat Man ascended through near darkness, just a faint ambient glow cast through the south facing windows, residual light from the diner nearby. The rest of the building remained dark, the doors to most of the classrooms closed tight.
Behind each one the Boat Man could envision stray vagrants, or even families of homeless huddled together, whatever possessions they’d managed to salvage heaped into a pile. With every step he could imagine them hearing the tread of his boots hitting the wood floor, hunkering down low, beseeching each other to be quiet.
Much like the people he might have encountered in the woods, the Boat Man wished them no harm. Their plight was difficult enough, he had no reason to add to it. He was only passing through for a short period of time, just long enough to do what he must before moving on.
Coming to the top floor, the Boat Man found all four doors open, a telling sign that it was deserted. Large water spots and bits of rotting plaster dotted the floor, pulling his gaze to the ceiling. Overhead he could see small pockets of the night sky peeking through, feel the cold air of the outer world on his cheeks.
A faint smile traced his lips as he thought of the building’s state of disrepair aiding him, pushing away any squatters that might have been camped out, the universe assisting his quest for justice.
Using the light from the diner as a guide, the Boat Man slipped into the southwest corner classroom, a tangle of desks reserved for children in their early years still inside. Most of the wood had long since been stripped away from them leaving only misshapen metal skeletons behind, their bodies tossed on a side.
Careful to step around them, the Boat Man picked his way to the closest window, nothing more than a gaping hole, the glass shattered away, lying in large shards across the floor. Sliding the rifle from its case, he rested the front of the barrel on the window casing and checked his view, a series of green halogen scale markers visible.
The Boat Man felt his heart rate increase as he stared through the scope, feeling like a military sniper as he checked over the area. Across from him he could see the diner at work, a half dozen regulars scattered amongst the tables. To his right, he could just make out the dumpster he’d used for cover the night before, trash still piled high around it.
The last place he looked was down at the abandoned gas station lot, at the open expanse of concrete providing an easy target. No more than twenty-five yards away, the Boat Man sighted in on small objects scattered on the asphalt, curling his finger around the trigger guard, imagining himself tugging it backwards, almost feeling the weight of the stock kicking against his shoulder.
Just as fast the Boat Man lowered the weapon, the smile remaining in place.
Leaning it back against the wall, the Boat Man lifted the shell of a desk from the ground nearby and placed it perpendicular to the window, using the metal as a makeshift frame. He rested the weapon across it, only the butt and barrel touching, both ends extended far out in either direction.
There he left it, just inches from his fingertips, as he took a few steps back from the window to ensure he was out of direct eyesight. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, his fingers curling around the obols lodged deep in the cloth sacks. He lowered his chin to his chest, his body going into a low power state as he focused in on his target.
All he had to do now was wait.
After two years, the Boat Man was good at waiting.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Reed’s cell phone was out before he crossed the threshold from the interrogation room, already scrolling through his recently dialed calls. He thumbed to the top entry in the list, a string of digits so new that a name had not yet even been attached to it, and pressed send.
“What the hell just happened in there?” Grimes asked, his attention still on the glass, the question aimed in Reed’s direction. Beside him Dade stood in a trance that was somewhere between awe and a daze, staring through the glass, watching Brandt and her nephew on the other side.
“What just happened was our case just got blown wide open,” Reed said, raising the phone to his ear. “Hopefully in a few minutes we’ll have a name to go with that story and we’ll be off and running.”
While listening to Pierce’s tale, a number of loose strings Reed could pull on had come to mind. The obvious place to start was figuring out who the couple was and where they were, the odds being overwhelming that they or someone affiliated with them was now going after the Kings.
It hadn’t taken a great deal of sleuthing to get the story out of Pierce, the photos having the effect of bringing a harrowing reality to the situation, stripping away his veneer. In its stead he had gone straight to that incident, the last and presumably worst thing that occurred during the existence of the gang.
The murders now occurring had to be connected.
If not, the reality was Reed had no idea what to pursue next.
The line rang three times before going to voicemail, an automaton telling him to leave a message. “Deek, this is Reed. Call me back, now.”
Looking up at Grimes, Reed said, “Whatever you hear me say in the next few minutes, I need you to agree to.”
Holding the phone out in front of him, Reed counted off six seconds before it erupted in his palm, the sound shrill through the hallway. Accepting it, Reed switched it to speakerphone.
“You know, man, when I gave you my number this morning that was so you wouldn’t wake me up anymore, not so you’d be calling again already.”
There was a slight hint of annoyance in Deek’s tone, though unlike their previous encounter he did sound awake and alert.
“Deek, I’m standing here right now with Captain Wallace Grimes,” Reed said, bypassing Deek’s comment. “We need some serious cyber digging done this second, and we’re willing to pay you as a special consultant to make it happen.
“Isn’t that right, Captain?”
Grimes’s eyes grew larger as he reached out and covered the receiver on Reed’s phone. “We have people on the force that do this sort of thing. They can be on it in minutes.”
“Sir, with all due respect, we don’t have anybody that works like this guy does. He’ll have me an answer by the time they even st
art looking.”
It was apparent from the look on Grimes’s face that he didn’t like it, was even less comfortable with being put on the spot, but he let it ride. Slowly he pulled his hand back and said, “That’s correct. As this is a time sensitive matter in a high visibility case, we will compensate you for all assistance rendered.”
A moment of silence passed, Reed and Grimes looking at each other, before Deek asked, “The usual form of currency? Or actual cash?”
“Whichever you’d prefer,” Reed said, waving a hand at the confused look on Grimes’s face.
Another moment passed, this one filled with the sounds of feet shuffling over a bare floor, followed by the plastic wheels of a desk chair doing the same.
“Alright man, hit me when ready.”
“I need you to look at May of 2012,” Reed said. “Check the hospitals in the area, starting with Grove City, for a pair of people being admitted. One male, one female, both assault victims, the woman a possible rape victim.”
Even as he rattled off the information, Reed knew how thin the data he had was. It was a good start for establishing motive, but still a long way from securing an identity.
The sound of keys moving quickly rang out, all three men in the hallway staring down at the implement in Reed’s hand.
“You got anything else for me, man? Over the course of a month we’ve got eleven different rape victims and twenty-seven assaults.”
Aside from the sketch artist picture, there was precious little Reed had to work with.
“I know the male was Caucasian. That help any?”
More keys sounded out. “Fourteen. Cut it almost in half.”
“Damn it,” Reed said, looking up at Grimes and Dade, both wearing the same strain he felt on their faces.
He looked a question to each of them, hoping for some bit of guidance, but both seemed as stumped as he was.
“Alright, let’s try this again,” Reed said. “Is there any way to determine if the victims were found in a park?”
“Found in a park?” Deek asked. “I’m looking at hospital records right now, not housing reports.”
Reed gave a bitter nod, his head moving no more than a few inches, as he agreed with Deek’s assessment.
Once more he ran the story back through his head, starting with the Kings hanging out in the gas station parking lot and taking it up through the moment when they dumped the bodies. Start to finish it took him just over a minute, everyone watching him, waiting in silence.
“The car,” he said, his attention focused on Brandt and Pierce still talking on the other side of the glass, the elder now having reached across the table, holding her nephew’s hand. “He said they left the car.”
Both Grimes and Dade continued to watch him, neither saying anything.
“Deek, can you determine if a car was towed from in front of the All-Nite Diner at any point that month? I don’t have an exact address, but I know it’s on Scanson.”
“Hold on,” Deek said, his voice distracted as he went to work. He continued to punch hard for thirty seconds, paused, and then went back again.
When he was done, a low, shrill whistle sounded out over the line.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What?” Reed asked, looking up at Grimes, not wanting to allow hope to creep in, but feeling it doing so just the same.
“Riley was right. You are good.”
The feeling of hope grew a little stronger as Reed focused in on the phone, squeezing it so tight in his hand the plastic threatened to explode at any moment.
“Deek, what’d you find?”
“On May 18th, a solid black BMW registered to a Michael Rigas was towed from that corner. Thing sat in impound for two and a half months before it was ever claimed.”
“How about the hospital records?” Reed asked. “That name come up?”
“No,” Deek replied, his voice again growing distant as he searched. “But four of them were admitted as John Doe’s.”
“That’s got to be our guy,” Reed said without looking up, staring at his phone. “Is there an address?”
“This your cell?” Deek asked. “I’ll text it to you right now.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The first thing Reed thought as he pulled up in front of Michael Rigas’s home was that Pierce had been correct. Quite possibly the only people more out of place than him in The Bottoms at that time of night would have been the owner of this home and his lady.
Located in Worthington, the house was tucked away in a cul-de-sac, a few miles away from the outer belt encircling the city. Leaving behind any of the noise or traffic of the freeway and the collection of restaurants and shopping centers it supported, the street was a bucolic look into residential living.
Generous lots lined either side of the street, equally spaced out, homes situated in the middle of them. All looked to be newer in manufacture, constructed from brick or cedar, only a couple using vinyl siding. Every last one of them stood two stories in height, towering oak and elm trees just starting to bud, their limbs extended out over the street.
As he sat and stared out at it, Reed could almost imagine the place in the summertime, the sort of street where impromptu barbecues and games of street baseball were common.
The images seemed almost a cruel juxtaposition from the reason Reed was there, at the very least at what had befallen Rigas.
“You ready?” Reed asked over his shoulder, taking up the short leash as he climbed out, clipping it to Billie’s collar so they could both approach the front door together.
Under different circumstances, he might have been more cognizant of the neighborhood dynamics at play. He may have tried less to alert any neighbors that might be watching, been sure to leave Billie behind so as to not arouse suspicion.
At the moment though he had ample reason to believe the man that was terrorizing The Bottoms fifteen miles south called this location his home. At the very least, he had direct knowledge of something horrific the victims had done, something so vile the likelihood of it not being connected was almost non-existent.
Given all that, there was no way he was leaving Billie behind.
The house appeared deserted as Reed approached, no car in the driveway, no lights in any of the windows. The front lawn had not yet been cut for the spring, errant tufts just starting to sprout up in odd places.
On the whole, the home stood two stories tall, a mixture of brick and white vinyl siding. The combined effect made the house look much brighter than many surrounding it, the place almost appearing inviting as Reed and Billie approached.
Again Reed could feel his heart rate increase, his pulse pushing through his temples as he came near, Billie sensing the physiological change in him, her demeanor shifting in turn. His breathing picked up as he ascended the front two steps and rang the doorbell, waiting a few moments before curling his hand into a fist and pounded on the frame of the door.
Thirty seconds of standing confirmed his original assumption. No lights came on from within, no sound of footsteps approaching, not even the slightest creak of the home to indicate someone might be moving around within.
Had any of the previous things occurred, Reed might have been able to claim probable cause and forced his way inside, feigning that a suspect was hiding, refusing to answer. As was, he had no reason to believe that to be true.
All forcing his way inside now would accomplish would be to bring down a firestorm of bad press for the department.
“Come on,” Reed said, turning on a heel and starting back down the front walk, pulling Billie along. When they got to the end of it a thought occurred to him and he kept moving forward, crossing over the street and walking to the door of the home directly opposite them.
With lights spilling through the front windows, the home could be seen as a near copy to Rigas’s. The only difference Reed noticed as he approached was the siding painted blue instead of white, an inconsequential detail as he rang the doorbell and stepped back.
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br /> The echo of the bell had no more than died away when heavy footsteps approached, the door pulled open a moment later by a woman with thick blonde hair. Somewhere in her late-thirties to early forties, smile lines had just started etching themselves around her eyes and mouth. Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, the majority of her frame was covered in a red and white apron, a dish towel in her hands.
A look of concern passed over her face as she looked at Reed and his enormous partner both standing on her porch.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice a bit deeper than expected.
“Good evening,” Reed said, reaching into his sweatshirt and removing his badge. “My name is Detective Reed Mattox, and this is my partner Billie.”
The look of concern faded a bit, though she remained silent.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Michael Rigas,” Reed said, hooking a thumb out by his side and twisting so as to motion to the house across the street. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen him tonight, would you?”
The woman glanced past Reed to the home sitting dark and shook her head, a tight, curt movement. “No, I haven’t. What’s this about? Has something happened...?”
He got the impression from the way her voice tailed off at the end that she had wanted to add “again,” but had stopped herself short.
“Not at all,” Reed said. “In fact, there’s been a bit of a break in a previous case and I was hoping to ask him a few questions.”
Even as Reed gave the response, he knew it sounded hollow. The woman before him seemed to as well, her stance remaining aloof, guarded.
“No,” she said, again shaking her head. “To be honest, we haven’t seen a lot of Michael in quite some time.”
The statement struck Reed as a bit off, something in her tone suggesting she was trying to tell him more than she was saying.
“He does still live here though?” Reed asked.
“Far as I know,” she replied. “I still see his car pull in and exit from time to time, but it’s been ages since any of us actually interacted with him.”
The Boat Man: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 21