State of Killers: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series Book 11)

by Thomas Scott

  Virgil relayed the information to Cool, and then everyone ran from the building and headed for their squad cars.

  Once they were in Virgil’s truck, Murton called Rosencrantz and said, “Time to stand on it, Rosie. Get within a half-mile. You, Martin, and Cool are going to be the closest. We’re coming as fast as we can.”

  Rosencrantz acknowledged the call, and after he did, Virgil risked a quick sideways glance at Murton, who was grinning.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Murton clapped his hands together. A single smack. He rubbed his palms and said, “Getting to the good stuff. I love this shit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Virgil was following Henderson, and when they were less than two miles from where the barn used to be, he took a radio call from Cool.

  “I don’t know how much this matters, but it looks like you’ve got a bunch of people coming out of the woods directly behind the explosion site. They’re scattering themselves through the fields.”

  Virgil acknowledged the report, then called Miles on the radio. “Sheriff, we can handle Dakota and the van. I’d advise you to have your men set up a perimeter on every road around that field. Looks like the cooks are leaving the kitchen.”

  Miles said he would, then Virgil heard him tell Henderson to coordinate the sweep. It was a good move by an experienced cop. Henderson knew the county much better than Miles did.

  Henderson peeled off on a side road, which left Virgil and Murton without an escort. But it didn’t matter because they were close enough to the barn they could see the smoke and fire. Thirty seconds later, they saw the van. Rosencrantz and Martin were right behind it.

  As soon as Dakota made his final turn on the road that would lead him back to the barn, he knew he had a problem. He’d picked up a tail, a fire was burning up ahead where the barn was located, and though he couldn’t yet see it, he could hear the heavy beat of a helicopter’s rotor blades.

  When he got to the spot where the barn used to be, there was nothing there except the remnants of a burning building. The fire department looked like they weren’t even trying to put the fire out. When he glanced in his rearview mirror, he saw the vehicle behind him getting closer, with a black pickup truck right on the car’s bumper. Out of instinct, he floored the accelerator and raced past the burning barn, wondering all the while where Johnny was. Then, in a moment of clarity, he knew he was finished. He’d killed enough people…one of them a cop, no less, and he wouldn’t end up in jail for the rest of his life. He’d end up in Terre Haute with a needle in his arm. His choices: Try to run, or stand and fight. Running didn’t seem to be an option, so he took his foot off the accelerator and let the van start to slow.

  Murton looked at Virgil and said, “Looks like he’s slowing. Maybe he’s gonna give it up.”

  “We’ll find out in about two minutes,” Virgil said. Then to Rosencrantz: “Rosie, you guys back off a bit. Cool, get out in front of him. It’s time to show the flag.”

  Martin backed her speed off, as Cool flew overhead, no more than fifty feet above them. He swung wide around the van, then got out ahead of it and spun the chopper 180 degrees, and pointed the nose of his craft right at the oncoming van. He descended until he was only ten feet off the ground, now flying backward, matching the van’s speed.

  When Dakota saw the helicopter descend in front of him, he knew the choice was no longer his. He braked hard and angled the van across the middle of the road, then reached behind the seat where he’d stowed the shotgun and jumped out. He leveled the gun at the helicopter and fired.

  Cool didn’t really see Dakota. What he saw was the barrel of the shotgun coming to bear on him and his craft. He said, “Hang on, Ross,” then pulled up on the collective, and banked hard to the right. Dakota’s shot missing wildly low.

  Ross heard Cool tell him to hang on in what he’d later describe as one of the calmest warnings he’d ever experienced. He tightened his belt as Cool got them clear with a combination of altitude and distance.

  As they circled overhead, Ross noticed that Martin and Rosencrantz were out of their vehicle, their guns drawn, taking cover behind the rear of the car. Virgil and Murton had pulled up close to Martin’s vehicle and were doing the same thing behind the truck.

  Ross tapped Cool on the shoulder and said, “Nice move. Give me access to the ground units on the radio, will you? I need to speak with Jonesy.”

  Cool flipped a switch, and said, “Go.”

  “Jonesy, you guys stay put,” Ross said. “He’s got a shotgun.”

  “I can see that,” Virgil said. “Let’s immobilize him. Take out his tires.”

  “I was thinking of a more permanent solution,” Ross said.

  “One step at a time, young man. Let’s see what happens when he knows he’s trapped.” Then to Rosencrantz and Martin: “You guys back up a bit. We’ll do the same. No sense in making targets out of ourselves.”

  They climbed in their vehicles and backed up about a hundred yards, and as they were doing that, Ross loosened his seatbelt as much as it would allow, opened the side door of the chopper, and told Cool to level off at five hundred feet.

  Cool got them into position, and Ross—with his butt on the floor and his feet on one of the helicopter’s skids—sighted in on the van’s passenger-side tires and fired two shots, no more than a second and a half apart.

  “Swing around to the other side,” Ross said.

  Cool kept the side door of the chopper facing the van and made a sweeping turn that brought them around. Dakota was blasting away with the shotgun, but it did him no good at all because the helicopter was too high and too far away.

  Once they were in position, Ross fired twice more, and now all four tires of the van were useless.

  On the ground, Dakota was reloading the shotgun. He knew the helicopter was too far away to hit, and his tires were gone. When he peeked around the tail end of the van, he saw the cops had backed off, now out of range as well. He thought, pussies. His heart was pumping so hard he thought it might beat itself to death and blow out of his chest. He jumped back in the van, dropped it into reverse, and smashed the accelerator to the floor. If he could get close enough to the cops on the ground, he might be able to take one or two of them with him.

  Virgil saw the van begin to back up and shouted for Rosencrantz and Martin to do the same. He looked at Murton and said, “If this guy wants a war, he’s going to get one.”

  “What are you thinking?” Murton said.

  Virgil was backing away from the van as well, keeping the distance between them and Dakota constant. “I’m thinking I’d like to see this asshole in a cage.”

  Then suddenly the van braked to a stop and Dakota jumped out. He leveled the shotgun at Virgil and Murton and fired, his aim wild, the distance too great to cause any damage. He began running toward them, his face twisted into a mask of rage.

  “I’m also thinking I don’t want to keep doing this until he runs out of ammo,” Virgil said. He keyed his microphone in the truck and said, “Ross?”

  “Go for Ross.”

  Virgil shook his head, and oddly, when he spoke, his thoughts turned to Sarah and the discussions they’d had regarding Ross, what he did for a living, and how that might affect not only him, but Sarah and Liv and any sort of future they might have together. Still, he gave the order. “Take him out.”

  “Stand by,” Ross said. “Need to get you guys out of the line of fire.” He told Cool to swing around and put them between Virgil and Murton and Dakota. Cool banked the chopper in another sweeping arc, and once they were in position, Ross did what he did best. He fired a single shot and hit his target right in the center of the chest.

  Dakota’s dying thought was that his heart had finally beat itself to death, and in a way, it had.

  Cool flew back over the van and landed in the middle of the road. Virgil and Murton, and Rosencrantz and Martin all pulled forward within twenty feet of Dakota’s body. Murton secured the shotgun, Marti
n recovered the cash from the van, and Virgil took out his phone and called Ron Miles.

  “You get everyone rounded up?” Virgil said.

  “Mostly,” Miles said. “There are still a few stragglers out, hiding in the woods. So far no one has been armed. Most of them are pretty doped up.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What’s the status of Dakota?” Miles asked.

  “He’s down. Ross took him out when he wouldn’t give it up. He just kept blasting away with a shotgun. Didn’t have much choice. Listen, tell your guys that Hawk is still out there somewhere. He might be one of your stragglers.”

  “We’re keeping an eye out for that,” Miles said.

  “If you could get some of the county crime scene people headed this way, I’d appreciate it,” Virgil said. “Coroner too. We’re about a mile or so past the barn that blew.”

  “I’ll get them started that way.”

  “Good enough,” Virgil said. “Once they’re here, I’ll head over to the barn with Murt. See what we can see.”

  “Meet you there,” Miles said, and then he was gone.

  The Shelby County crime scene people showed up a half-hour later, and after Virgil explained what happened, he let them do their thing. Martin thanked Virgil and Murton for their help, then told them she needed to secure the cash at the DEA’s Indianapolis field office. She also offered to drive Rosencrantz up to Muncie to collect Ross’s car.

  “That good with you, boss-man?” Rosencrantz said.

  “Sure. Just get me your written statement as soon as you can.”

  “You got it, Jonesy.” Then Rosencrantz snapped his fingers and said, “You know what I just remembered?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ross and I never checked out of that hotel up in Elkhart.” He turned and looked at Martin. “I don’t believe Carla did either, did you?”

  “No. All of our stuff is still there. I guess we should drive up and get that as well.” Her face blushed a bit when she spoke.

  Ross was standing there, listening to the whole thing. He didn’t say a word, and it looked like he was taking a sudden interest in the tops of his boots.

  “That’s fine,” Virgil said. “Just get back as soon as you can.”

  “Sure,” Rosencrantz said. “Although, I’m pretty tired. Might take a little under-time and spend a night or two before I drive back. Sort of a safety issue, if you get my drift.”

  “I’m certain I do,” Virgil said, looking at exactly no one when he spoke. Then he let his eyes land on Rosencrantz and said, “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  Once Martin and Rosencrantz had left, Virgil turned to Ross and said, “Are they…?”

  Ross nodded. “Oh yeah. There’s no question. I got the whole story. Well, most of it, anyway. The entire thing was pure chance. I was getting a bucket of ice…ah, never mind. Now’s not the time, but when we’re done with all this, ask me about the Chubby Trout.”

  Virgil gave him an odd look and said, “The what?”

  “Yeah, that was sort of my reaction too,” Ross said.

  Virgil turned and looked at Dakota’s body lying in the middle of the road. When he looked back at Ross, he said, “You okay?”

  Ross frowned at him. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you this, though: I don’t understand why everyone keeps asking me that.”

  “I hope you never do,” Virgil said. Then he clapped him on the back and said, “Nice shooting. Get your after-action report typed up and send it over to Becky for processing. Cool will give you a ride out.”

  Ross nodded once and walked back toward the chopper.

  Virgil watched him go, and thought, The Chubby Trout?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Shelby County crime scene crew had to split up, half of them tending to the shooting of Dakota, the other half out at the now destroyed barn. The fire department got the flames knocked down, and once it was safe to get a closer look, one of them said, “We’ve got a body…or most of one anyway. Fingerprints aren’t going to be of any value at all. They’ve been burned beyond recognition. You can probably forget about dental records as well.”

  Virgil and Murton and Ron Miles were standing upwind of the barn site, the fumes not yet dissipated enough from the chemicals and meth that had blown up in the explosion.

  “Why won’t the dental records be of any value?” Virgil said.

  The tech, in a very matter-of-fact way, said, “Can’t find the head.”

  Miles looked at Virgil and said, “Hawk?”

  Virgil turned his palms up and said, “It might be hard to tell. We don’t have any DNA on him, and even if we find the head, I doubt if he’s got any dental records anywhere.”

  “The deputies managed to get the rest of the stragglers, and none of them were Hawk,” Miles said.

  The tech looked at Virgil and Murton and Miles and said, “Uh, we’re a little shorthanded due to the investigation at the other scene. If you guys want to mask up and help us look around, we’d certainly appreciate it. Although I’d be the first to admit, most of what you’d find won’t add up to much. This was a hell of a bang.”

  Murton look at Virgil and said, “I guess we won’t be wrapped by noon after all.”

  Virgil shrugged, then said, “Come on…let’s suit up. We can go play crime scene weenies.”

  The tech frowned and said, “Hey now…”

  The blast had sent debris flying in every direction for hundreds of feet. Since the crime scene crew was working the immediate perimeter, Virgil and Murton decided to start from the outermost area of the blast site and work their way back toward the center. Two hours into their search, they’d discovered nothing of evidentiary value. Then, Murton said, “Jones-man, got a cell phone here.”

  Virgil walked over, squatted down, and looked at the phone without touching it. “Let me go get one of the techs.”

  As Virgil was doing that, Murton marked the spot with an evidence flag, then kept moving. Thirty feet away, he found a wallet. He marked that as well, then walked back over to where Virgil and the tech were standing, looking at the phone.

  “I’ll bag it up and see if we can get any prints. Based on the condition of the screen, I doubt if it still works.”

  “We don’t need it to work,” Virgil said. “Just need to know who it belongs to.”

  Once the phone was bagged, Murton looked at the tech and said, “Might have something even better.”

  “Where?”

  Murton tipped his head in a follow-me gesture, and they all walked over to the wallet. Virgil looked at it for a few seconds, then asked the tech if they could open it up.

  “Might as well,” the tech said. “We won’t get any usable prints from it. Man, I haven’t seen one of those things in years.” The wallet was an older ribbed nylon trifold, with a velcro closure. “Although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to do it. There is a possibility that some of the contents inside could be printed.”

  “It’s your show,” Murton said.

  The tech released the velcro flap and carefully opened the wallet. Front and center, right in the middle of the trifold, was Johnny Hawk’s driver’s license.

  Murton looked at the license, laughed through his nose, and said, “Expired. Now we’ve really got something on him.”

  Then from the center of the blast site, someone shouted, “We’ve got the head.”

  Virgil and Murton walked over to the barn area and found another technician down on his knees, carefully removing a pile of debris from around an object that looked a little like a burnt football.

  “I’m half afraid to touch it,” the tech said. “It’s burned so badly it’s starting to fall apart.”

  Miles, who’d been coordinating with Henderson, walked over and said, “What have we got?”

  “Found the head,” Murton said. “Also a cell phone and a wallet. Don’t yet know about the phone, but the wallet belonged to Hawk.”

  “Gotta be him, then, right?” Miles said. �
�What are the chances it’s not? We’ve picked up everyone else, and Stronghill is at the jail right now. He confirms none of them are Hawk. And now we’ve got a body, a decapitated head to go with it, and the man’s wallet.”

  Virgil was nodding. “Probably right, Ron.” Then he turned to the tech who’d bagged the cell. “How long to pull any prints from that phone?”

  “I could fume it right now in the van if you want. Won’t take very long.”

  “Do that,” Virgil said. Then to Miles: “Stronghill will have a set of Hawk’s prints. If that phone has his prints on it, all that’s left to do is the paperwork. Nice job, Sheriff.”

  An hour later the match was made. Stronghill had brought a copy of Hawk’s prints out to the blast site, and when the tech compared the two sets, he gave his verbal confirmation that they were in fact, identical.

  Virgil looked at Ron and said, “I guess that does it for us. We’ll get you a copy of our reports in a day or so. Appreciate it if you could send yours over to Becky when you’ve finished up.”

  “That’s no problem. Appreciate the state’s help.”

  “We aim to please,” Murton said.

  Miles turned toward the direction where Ross had taken Dakota out, then said, “And shoot to kill.”

  Murton tipped his head just so, and said, “You’d have done it differently?”

  Miles shrugged. “Ross is a hell of a shooter. Why not just put one in his leg or something?”

  Murton was about to answer, but Virgil cut him off. “I made the call, Ron. It’ll be in my report. Bottom line? A killer was opening up on a federal agent and three state cops with a shotgun. He got what he deserved.”