Given that the man he was going to see was a judge long familiar with working with law enforcement, Reed opted to bring Billie along, attaching the short lead to her collar. As they made their way to the corner and used the crosswalk, he pulled his badge out from the folds of his sweatshirt, careful to make sure it was seen as they approached.
While his particular manner of dress was a personal choice, Brandt’s comment about him resembling a gym teacher was hardly the first he had heard, Riley herself having made similar comments on an almost daily basis.
Bringing Billie and making sure his ID was visible would save him a lot of time and questions at the very least.
Given the potentially testy nature of what he was there to inquire about, any help at all would be appreciated.
A pair of U.S. Marshals in matching sport coats nodded to Reed as he entered, motioning him to the side of the line moving through the metal detectors. As an officer of the law he was allowed to wear his sidearm inside the courthouse, a rule that made scanning him for anything else futile.
He waited along the side as the Marshals screened the few people in front of him before coming over with a clipboard and taking down his name and badge number. Each made a few idle inquiries about why he was there, losing interest when he mentioned only needing to speak with Judge Bennett for a few minutes, wrapping the conversation up with a few scratches behind Billie’s ears.
Just 10 minutes after parking, Reed found himself on the third floor, passing through a glass door, the title of the office embossed on it in gold overlay, a small sense of déjà vu setting in from his meeting with Morris the day before. The only major difference was this time the desk was manned by a blonde in her late 30s, two even rows of blinding teeth smiling as he approached.
“Well now, isn’t she just gorgeous?” the woman said, rising from her chair. The smile remained as she looked down at Billie, completely ignoring Reed.
It was the first time anything even approaching that reaction had ever occurred, Reed content not to interrupt it, watching as Billie seemed to enjoy the attention. She glanced up at him for only a moment before inching forward.
Sensing this might be his best chance to get past the gatekeeper, Reed silently urged Billie forward and said, “Is Judge Bennett in? Just need to ask him a few quick questions.”
“Yeah, he’s in his chambers,” the woman said, coming out from around the desk.
Reed paused, watching as she approached, showing Billie the back of her hand, allowing the dog to get her scent before attempting to pet her. Having confirmed that the woman knew her way around animals, he dropped the lead to the floor beside Billie, passing through an open door into the chambers behind the desk.
At first glance, Jackson Bennett was a big man, much larger than Reed expected. Most of the judges he had encountered over the years were of a stooped variety, made that way from advanced age and decades spent bent over a desk.
The one before him was different in every way, standing several inches taller than Reed, outweighing him by at least 100 pounds. The effect was made even more pronounced by the robe he was fitting into place as Reed entered, the black material offset by his white hair and red face.
“Judge Bennett?” Reed asked, tapping on the door with a single knuckle as he passed inside.
At the sound of his voice, the judge turned, his hands by his neck, working on a paisley tie. “Yes?”
“Hi,” Reed said, moving in without being invited, “I’m very sorry to drop by unannounced like this, but my name is Detective Reed Mattox, and I have a few questions I was hoping you might be able to answer for me.”
Cinching the tie into place, Bennett lowered his hands and turned, taking in the badge and Reed’s attire. “What’s this about?”
Taking another step, Reed stopped behind a pair of wingback chairs, the furniture meant for guests sitting opposite the judge’s desk. On the walls around them was a collection of outdoor landscapes, most of them wooded scenes that Reed guessed to have been from central Ohio.
“I understand you used to preside over much of Franklin County,” Reed said, starting vague.
“I did,” the judge replied, walking over and placing a hand on the back of his chair, choosing not to sit. “What is this about?”
Drawing in a breath, Reed paused, contemplating the best approach. The last thing he wanted to do was sound accusatory, needing to frame it so the judge knew he was in need of help, nothing more.
“Two years ago, when you were still in that capacity, you expunged a complaint from the record. I need to know why.”
As much as his intent was not to inflame, he couldn’t help but notice how harsh the words sounded, even to his own ears.
A shadow passed over Bennett’s face as he stared back at Reed, a bit of color flushing his cheeks. “Officer, as I’m sure you’re already aware, if those records were sealed, then it was with good cause. Confidentiality prohibits me from ever speaking of it.”
Just a minute before, the judge had heard Reed introduce himself as detective. Choosing to address him as officer was obviously a move to try to seize control of the conversation, letting Reed know he didn’t appreciate where things were headed without saying as much.
“I do understand that, Your Honor,” Reed said, adding the title in hopes of using it to diffuse things. “And I wouldn’t be here asking unless it was a vital matter.”
“Let me guess,” Bennett interjected, cutting him off. “Life and death?”
The tone of his voice and the flat look on his face relayed he was being facetious, trying to make Reed feel a fool, blowing things out of proportion, asking for things that simply weren’t possible.
“Three deaths,” Reed replied, using the same demeanor as the judge, turning the dynamic back on him. “In a rather horrific manner, using a broadsword. Dismemberment, disembowelment. I’m sure you’ve seen it on the news.”
Not once did Reed raise his voice or challenge the judge in any way, though it was clear his words had found their mark. Bennett shifted a few inches to his right and cupped both hands on the chair, all hue fading from his cheeks.
“The Bottoms.”
“The Bottoms,” Reed echoed, nodding. He didn’t feel the need to elaborate on which complaint he was referring to, the immediate reaction from the judge making it clear he was already familiar with the one in question. “So far, every one of the victims has been an individual whose records you wiped clean that day.”
He paused, making sure his words were heard, before adding, “Now, I know the enormity of what I’m asking, but there really are lives at stake here. Who leaned on you to make this go away, and who were they trying to protect?”
Color had continued to recede from Bennett’s face until all that was left was a ghostly pallor. He stared at Reed, his body rigid, before glancing at the miniature grandfather clock sitting on a table along the side of the room.
“I need to be in court in three minutes, so I’ll have to give you the abbreviated version. I’m sorry, but if you want more, it’ll have to wait.”
“I’ll take anything you can give me,” Reed said.
Bennett nodded once. “I’m not even going to bother asking how you come to have this information. At this point, I’d say there are more important matters to focus on.”
“But you remember it well?” Reed asked, wanting, needing Bennett to give him something to work with before leaving.
“What I remember,” Bennett said, his voice getting a bit softer as he looked past Reed to the wall above him, “was how mundane it was. Basic filing for public nuisance, barely a misdemeanor. There was no need for it be wiped away, certainly no call for pressure from on high to be exerted.”
A tiny bit of what Rasul had mentioned lined up in Reed’s head. The report he filled out had been for the bare minimum, wanting solely to file an insurance claim, pressing no major charges.
“So then why...?” Reed asked.
“Not why,” Bennett said, “who. Who would
have had so much to lose at that particular moment in time that they would do anything to protect it?”
Reed knew Bennett was trying to tell him something monumental, was giving him the key piece of information he needed without having to condemn himself in the process. His brow furled tight as he met the man’s gaze, trying to piece it together.
“Who would have been so threatened by a minor complaint in The Bottoms that they would lean on a judge to wipe it clean?” he asked aloud, letting Bennett know he followed the line of reasoning, even if he hadn’t quite come to a conclusion yet.
“Two things,” the judge replied, again glancing over at the clock beside them, “and then I’m sorry, but I really do have to go.
“First, I never said I was leaned on. There wasn’t outright pressure for me to do anything.”
“But you were rewarded just the same,” Reed finished.
Bennett held up his hands, sweeping them around his stately office. “Six months later I moved in here. I won’t say it was a direct cause, but the glowing letter of recommendation sure didn’t hurt.
“Second,” he pressed on, picking up an iPad and a legal pad from the desk in front of him, “you’ve already figured out I can’t tell you who it was. What I can do is tell you if word ever got out that this conversation took place, she would be flat pissed.”
Chapter Forty-Five
There was an itching sensation crawling the length of the Boat Man’s back, an insatiable tingling he couldn’t scratch, couldn’t shake no matter what he did. It started at the nape of his neck, extending down to his waist, feeling like a whisper of cool breath against his skin. Every few moments it kicked up again, becoming more pronounced, goose pimples standing out along his forearms.
Things were not going the way they were supposed to. Months of thinking, waiting, watching, had led him to a plan that was perfect, that was infallible.
That was fast becoming useless.
The first mistake had not been his own. It had been the corpse of Mason Durell, the spastic gasp of a body that didn’t quite realize it was done, jerking away in the warehouse three nights before. That one movement, that one unforeseen spasm, had ruined his blade and, with it, any chance he had at continuing with his plan.
Had he known then what he did now, he might have forged ahead anyway, using the damaged weapon, making it work for the sake of finishing what he had started.
Instead, the second mistake had been his, pausing, waiting until his equipment was perfect before pressing on. In doing so, he had underestimated the attention his actions were garnering in The Bottoms, had discounted how fast the police would be on to him. Now they were everywhere, patrolling the streets, watching for him.
Worse still, they had warned his targets that he was coming.
The new timetable he was on, the sudden change in his circumstance, had switched the rules. No longer was he far out in front of everyone, working in complete obscurity, needing only the shadows to mask his movements.
As much as he hated what he was about to do, what it represented, there was no way around it.
Sitting behind the steering wheel of his rented Dodge, the Boat Man watched as a faded green pickup pulled into the lot, parking three stalls down from him. For a long time neither party emerged, each glancing at the other, watching the deserted park for signs of life.
The meeting had been arranged through an online chat room, the kind of place where rednecks frequented to discuss the end of the world and what they were doing to prep for the day when all mankind became zombies. Just logging into it had brought a feeling of revulsion to the Boat Man’s stomach as he typed out the simple request, pushing it into cyberspace, waiting less than five minutes for a response.
The man’s online handle was The Joker, his sign an image from a deck of Royal playing cards. He claimed to have exactly what the Boat Man was looking for and a willingness to part with it for the proper price.
It took just three emails for the two parties to come to an agreement on terms, the exchange set for four hours later. What the man had on his plate that needed so much time to clear, the Boat Man didn’t pretend to know, going about his own tasks until the time was right, before making the 50-mile drive west of Columbus.
The state park that the man had suggested seemed suitable for such an exchange, lending the impression it wasn’t the first time he had done this. Upon agreeing to the arrangement, the Boat Man had thought for sure the guy was trying to lure him into a trap, so he arrived a full two hours early.
After 110 minutes in complete silence he was content things were clear, the location chosen because it was remote, nothing more.
The park looked to be little more than 10 acres, the back had a pond with a dock on one end, a playground opposite it.
Bisecting the area between them was a small asphalt parking lot for six cars.
The only two in use were occupied by the Boat Man and his one-time business partner.
“Let’s get this over with,” the Boat Man said to no one, pushing the driver’s door open, again feeling the tingling run down the back half of his body. He came to a complete stop as he exited the car and shut the door behind him, raising his hands to either side, showing he was unarmed.
A moment later the sound of the truck’s door opening could be heard, the vehicle shifting as a man climbed out.
Built like a soda machine, he walked around the side of the truck and came to a stop behind his tailgate, his thick arms hanging six inches out from his torso. He was dressed in jeans and a sleeveless Henley, curly red hair covering every visible bit of skin, save a small oval around his eyes.
“You Boat Man?” the man asked, jerking his chin upward as he spat out the question.
“I am,” the Boat Man replied, choosing not to comment on the inanity of the question. “Joker?”
“Mhmm,” the man grumbled, going for the rear latch on his tailgate and jerking it open.
The heavy green metal fell with a rumble, the Joker sliding a vinyl gun case onto it.
“As requested, a 50-caliber sniper rifle,” Joker said, lifting it from the oil cloth it was resting on, his hand finding the trigger guard, the barrel pointed toward the sky. “Fiber optic scope mounted to the barrel, spring loaded feed capable of pushing out 100 rounds per minute.”
He tipped the gun, peering down the barrel, his left eye pinched closed as he looked through the scope with his right. “Sighted in up to 500 yards, capable of hitting targets as far out as 1,000.”
The Boat Man kept any sort of reaction off his face as he looked at the weapon, the matte metal finish polished clean, the smell of lubricant and oil finding his nostrils. He watched as the Joker handled it like a man who had been doing so most of his life, he himself keeping his hands in his pockets.
“It’s a beautiful weapon,” he said. “It will do nicely.”
“The backstory is completely clean,” the Joker replied. “There is no serial number, no history whatsoever. Anybody coming across this gun or a shell it fires will find nothing as to where it came from.”
The Boat Man nodded, glad that the man had taken care of that aspect without being asked.
The man again raised the front end toward the sky and extended the butt to the Boat Man, only to be met with a twist of his head.
“That won’t be necessary,” the Boat Man said. “This is merely for precaution, meant as a scare tactic. Just looking at it, I can tell it will more than fit that job description.”
The man narrowed his eyes slightly at the explanation but said nothing as he lowered the weapon back into its case and zipped it closed. When he was finished, he turned to the Boat Man, the same wary expression in place.
“Don’t take offense to this, but for my own purposes I have to ask,” he said.
Already the Boat Man could tell something was coming he didn’t especially want to hear, but again chose not to let it show.
“You’re not one of those sick bastards are you? Am I going to read tomorrow abou
t you going into a schoolhouse or a movie theater and going ape shit on the place?”
To the Boat Man the question was humorous, though there was no outward show of it. There were certainly people in the world who needed to fear his having the weapon, though none of them were of the sort who frequented schools or cinemas.
With his left hand he extracted a roll of cash from his pocket, extending the money in front of him.
“Would it matter if I were?”
A long moment passed as the man looked from the money to the Boat Man before reaching out and accepting the bills. “Only if you were foolish enough to say where you got it.”
This time the Boat Man allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up in a smile, nodding toward the money he’d just handed over. “Look at how much cash I just gave you. That was to buy your silence as much as the gun.”
Shifting his gaze downward just briefly, the Joker fanned the bills out before shoving them in his pocket, nodding in approval of their transaction.
Without another word he reached out and took up the case, extending it to the Boat Man.
Four minutes later they were both back on the road, headed in their respective directions.
Chapter Forty-Six
For the third time in recent days, Reed found himself back in Grimes’s office. As someone who had gone out of his way in the preceding months to stay as far off the grid as possible, the amount of face time he was putting in around the precinct was fast growing uncomfortable.
Especially considering a lot of it was during the busiest daylight hours.
Unlike the previous two trips, this meeting had been called by Reed. Not quite a demand, but definitely far north of a request, he had contacted Grimes on his direct line and told him he would be in shortly.
They had things to discuss that could not wait.
At the time Reed could tell Grimes wasn’t especially fond of being told by a detective what was going to happen, a fact that was now made apparent by the frown on the captain’s face. His jowls hung on either side of his chin, and tiny red lines crossed over the whites of his eyes, the telltale signs of a man who hadn’t been sleeping well.
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 17