by Rick Reed
Liddell said, “The victim parked the truck, stole a car, and drove across town. He must have been meeting someone.”
“But why steal a car to do it?” Jack asked. “Why not drive the truck and park in one of the vacant parking lots near the university? Or at the university, for that matter. And why would he hide the key to the truck in his shoe?”
“He didn’t trust the guy he was meeting,” Dr. John said.
“Maybe it was me,” Little Casket said. “Liddell thinks the killer is a woman. Maybe I got tired of men being so damn stupid and just went off.” She walked toward the hallway door. “I’ll be in my office. Come get me when you’re going to stop yapping and get this autopsy going.” She went out and slammed the door shut.
“What the hell?” Walker said. His cell phone beeped. “It’s Corporal Morris. I’ve got to take this.” Walker moved a short distance away. He disconnected and said, “Morris said Mrs. Rademacher let him collect plates and cups, but she wouldn’t submit to being fingerprinted. She said it was government intervention and a violation of her constitutional right to privacy.”
“She and a million criminals agree,” Jack said.
“Morris also said Animal Control came to get the dog and she threatened to throw a pot of hot coffee on them. She said to tell you that we’d better not send the dog pound out again or there’d be another body lying in the alley.”
The thought had crossed Jack’s mind to take the dog to his veterinarian friend, Dr. Branson, to get her cleaned up enough to find a home for her. It wasn’t very likely that the pooch would be returned to Joe. “We need to take her to a veterinarian friend of mine. We don’t want her to bite someone.”
Liddell said, “Do you mean the dog or Freyda?”
Walker said, “I forgot how much of a dog person Jack is. You never told me how Katie is getting along with your rescued pooch now that you’re back home?”
Jack had rescued a dog during a case a year or so back. The dog had been injured defending her master from a psycho killer. A redneck police chief had threatened to shoot the injured dog, and Jack had to threaten the chief. He’d taken her to his friend to get treated, but he ended up adopting her. The dog’s name was Cinderella, and she wouldn’t answer to any other name. Her last owner was a gay man, and she didn’t like men who weren’t. She’d bare her teeth when Jack was around, and she’d pee on his pillow and in his shoes when he wasn’t home. “She’s in restraints, muzzled and tied to a backboard.”
Walker’s eyebrows rose, and Jack said, “Cinderella. Not Katie.”
“Let me know if you can definitely put the victim in the truck,” Jack said.
“We should be able to do that with fingerprints and the dog’s hair,” Walker said. “Joanie said she found dog hair all over the front seat in the cab of the truck. It’s the same color as the pooch. Morris took hairs from the car, and I collected some from the victim’s clothing. We’ll run the fingerprints through AFIS and IAFIS.” AFIS is the Automated Fingerprint Identification System maintained by the FBI. IAFIS is the Indiana version of the FBI system. The FBI system is the most comprehensive database in the world. “Chief Pope has arranged for the other bodies to be stored at Swonder Ice Rink when we can get them all moved.”
“It’ll put a crimp in ice hockey for a bit,” Liddell quipped.
“The mayor’s assistant is coming up with a story for why it’s closed. The City Event Manager is resisting because people might not want to skate where dead bodies were stored,” Walker said.
Liddell said, “I’d think that would be a draw.”
Walker said, “Well, I guess they’ll have to come to a decision soon. Joanie said some people are showing up at the scene carrying placards protesting our treatment of immigrants.”
“I knew this would start eventually. How the hell did they get organized so quick?” Jack asked, and answered his own question. “Claudine Setera. Shit!”
Lilly Caskins said from the doorway, “You boys might want to see this.”
Jack, Liddell, and Walker followed her to the conference room where she had a television on and tuned in to Channel Six news.
Chapter 10
People say that if you want good food, go where the truck drivers go. From experience, Coyote knew that wasn’t true. But big places, like the Flying J Truck Stop and Café just outside St. Louis, had a place for the truckers to take showers and change clothes. After he showered he put the hat, boots, and Burberry coat in his duffel bag and pulled on a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt and clean blue jeans. He slipped on a beige nondescript parka and scuffed loafers, and discovered The Flying J Café was temporarily closed. Just as well. He’d been stationary too long.
He found another little café just down the road that resembled a train’s caboose, but with windows running across the front so customers could see outside. He could see the waitress. She was young, still a teenager. Her elbows were on the countertop, face propped on her hands, chewing gum. He wasn’t expecting much in the way of service, but he had to eat.
He parked the Dart and went inside. The inside of the café was set up like a soda shop from the ’50s with booths lined across the front under the windows. Four chrome barstools with red Naugahyde seats were lined up at the counter. The waitress wore a pink uniform with wide white lapels and pockets. The resemblance ended there. The waitress was on her cell phone, tapping the screen, giggling, and totally ignored him.
He found a seat in the back corner where he could watch the door and the counter. The waitress still didn’t move. Behind her was a door leading to the kitchen and the back. Next to that was the serving window where there would undoubtedly be a grill his father had liked to call a fry and die because they served fried everything. His dad liked fried food. Especially anything with bacon. Ironically his dad didn’t die from a heart attack from all the grease. He died at the ripe age of forty-two from lung cancer. Maybe it had something to do with a four-pack-a-day habit.
The waitress pushed herself up to a standing position with a sigh. She grabbed an order pad and walked over to Coyote’s booth.
“There’s plenty of seats near the counter,” she said accusingly. “What’ll you have, mister?”
Coyote pointed to the breakfast special and put the menu down on the not-too-clean table. She scribbled briefly on the pad and walked away with another heavy sigh meant to convey her displeasure with having to walk ten feet extra.
He was somewhat rested and feeling good about last night’s mission. He took out his notebook and pen. The waitress came back with his order, set the plate in front of him along with a coffee mug stained on the rim with lipstick. At least the coffee was hot. He used a gloved finger to wipe at the red baked-on smudge.
There was nothing special about the “special.” The bacon was limp and greasy, the eggs were burnt, and the toast wasn’t toasted.
He opened the notebook.
Feeling good today. Was down last night. The meeting didn’t go as smoothly as I would have liked. The guy I was meeting with was merely a pawn, a driver, obviously not in a good place in his life because he was late. He was being cautious. I couldn’t blame him given the current political climate. He would be out of work if things continued as they were. I don’t think he ever considered another job, or that this one might cost his life. If you shovel shit for a living you get some on you. But we resolved that issue. By the time the meeting ended he was in a better place.
I’m still disappointed—no, I’m disgusted—with everything I see. People are lazy, expect everything will be given to them, everything will be okay, their stupid lives will go on as usual and they call that normal.
I have lost my appetite. I know I need food to keep functioning but this food looks like it came out of a trashcan, which is where it’s going. The cook needs a serious attitude adjustment.
It’s like you said, doc, I’m always in the “on” position when it comes to anger. In t
he past, I would have walked back in the kitchen and shoved the son of a bitch’s face on the grill until his flesh was as done as the bacon should have been. But today I’ll give him a pass. He should thank you for his life. I want you to write that down at our next session. Write down that I didn’t hurt the cook. And I’ll leave a good tip. The workers get away with what management lets them get away with.
Coyote pushed the plate away, dug a roll of twenties out of his pocket, peeled one off, and put it under the coffee mug. He continued writing.
My business contact is supposed to call about the Midwest mission. Business is good. I’m keeping busy. You said that was a way to deal with my issues. Traveling is the hard part, but life is about sacrifices. Right? My country makes heavy demands, but I’ve never said no. This country needs men like me. My old boss was too worried about his own ass to see what needed to be done. My country didn’t desert me. He did. He hung me out to dry. Humiliated me. Had me dismissed from service. But like they say, karma’s a bitch. I’m working for myself now. I’ve got all the contacts I need. I can make this all work. The rules I have to obey are my own. Taking people’s lives is wrong. I know that. But taking the lives of people trying to ruin my country is forgivable. I’ll kill them all to protect the people I love.
You spend your soul and...
He heard Evansville mentioned, and his attention was drawn to a television on the wall behind the counter. A male news announcer with a smug look said something else about Evansville. Coyote heard “gruesome discovery.”
“Turn that up,” Coyote told the waitress.
She was once again slumped against the counter. She looked over, saw the twenty-dollar bill peeking out from under the coffee cup and said, “We don’t keep it loud, mister. The other customers don’t want the noise, but since there ain’t no one here...”
What customers? Coyote ignored her. He was barely registering the spoken words on the television, concentrating on the video taken of a dark-skinned young boy in a hospital bed, raising rail-thin arms to hide from the camera. The caption at the bottom of the picture read: “Survivor in Evansville.”
The waitress turned the volume up. The picture changed to the smug-looking man again, saying, “Claudine Setera from our sister station in Evansville has more on this breaking story. Claudine?”
A beautiful dark-haired woman’s face filled the screen. The camera backed up and showed her standing in front of an emergency room. Behind her, through sliding glass doors, a uniformed policeman could be seen leaning against a counter, and the backs of two well-nourished nurses in mint-green scrubs walking down a hall.
The female reporter said, “I’m here at Deaconess Hospital Emergency Room in Evansville, Dan, where the lone survivor of what can only be described as a shocking mass murder was brought in by Detective Jack Murphy just hours ago. We have a video from the scene where the bodies of more than thirty victims were discovered by police this morning. The victims all appear to have died of exposure after being locked in the back of a semitrailer with Texas plates. Police are speculating the truck may have been abandoned days ago behind a vacant warehouse on Fountain Avenue.”
Male Anchor:
“We’ll share those photos with our audience, Claudine.”
The picture changed once again to an outdoor crime scene shot from the Channel Six helicopter, showing a semitrailer sitting with the back doors open and white-clad workers carrying body bag after body bag from inside.
Claudine:
“As you can see, Dan, the police were ill-equipped to deal with a tragedy of this type. At last count, twenty-three of the victims’ bodies have been taken by ambulance to a hastily arranged cold storage area at Swonder Ice Rink.”
Male Anchor:
“Claudine, have the police identified any of the victims or the survivor?”
Claudine:
“I asked that question of Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick this morning, and he had this to say.”
The picture changed to a uniformed police officer. The emblem of the Evansville Police Department was displayed on the brick wall behind the officer. A microphone was clipped to the starched and pressed shirt of Deputy Chief Richard Dick’s dress blue uniform. With his blond hair, blue eyes, and posture he could be the poster boy for the Aryan Brotherhood. He looked appropriately stern for the camera.
Deputy Chief Dick:
“Claudine, this morning police were notified of a suspicious vehicle, a tractor-trailer, parked behind an abandoned business near the Pigeon Creek Bridge. Upon investigation officers found the trailer doors were locked, and upon probable cause, forcibly opened the doors to discover the dead bodies of thirty-one men and women. The victims all appeared to have succumbed to the elements. At my direction, the trailer was searched for signs of life, and one boy was found alive. He was rescued from the piles of bodies and is currently receiving medical treatment. The investigation is ongoing, so names will not be released, but I can assure you I am doing everything in my power to identify the victims and bring the perpetrator to justice.”
The screen filled again with the woman’s face.
Claudine:
“Deputy Chief of Police Richard Dick is the Commander of the Detectives Unit and in charge of this ongoing investigation.”
Male Anchor:
“Police haven’t identified any of the victims or the survivor, Claudine? Do they know why the victims were in Evansville?”
Claudine:
“I understand Detective Jack Murphy is the lead detective and has identified the survivor, but given his age, the police haven’t made his name public, Dan. The victims are believed to be illegal immigrants. Deputy Chief Dick speculated the victims were part of a failed human trafficking operation. He didn’t have information on the possible destination. Another source close to the investigation has revealed that another murder victim was found early this morning near the University of Evansville. The male victim in that case had no identification on him, but the police have evidence to believe he was the driver of the semitruck.”
Male Anchor:
“Were you able to speak to the survivor, Claudine?”
Claudine:
“The boy was taken to Deaconess Hospital as Deputy Chief Dick said. He was too traumatized to speak to us.”
Male Anchor:
“Have the police interviewed the boy?”
Claudine:
“Detective Jack Murphy spent some time talking to the boy, and I understand he was able to get a name and other information pertinent to the investigation. A source in the police department has confirmed the survivor and victims were illegally being brought into the United States and that the State Department is being notified.”
Male Anchor:
“Were you able to interview Detective Murphy?”
Claudine:
“The short film clip you’re seeing is the attempted interview with Detective Jack Murphy.”
The screen changed to a shaky film clip showing Claudine approaching two serious-looking detectives. Both were big; one was huge. A semitruck and trailer were in the background. A white-clad technician stood outside the back door of the trailer talking to a uniformed policeman. Claudine could be heard asking questions before she was led away from the scene at the direction of the smaller of the two detectives. The female reporter had called the smaller man Detective Murphy. She came back on screen.
Claudine:
“As you can see, Detective Murphy refused to comment, but the public has a right to know if a dangerous criminal is loose in Evansville, Dan.”
The news continued, but Coyote had lost interest. He’d made a mistake. If the lady on the news was telling the truth, he’d made more than one mistake. The police had found the cargo much quicker than he’d thought possible, and someone in the truck had survived. He was sure the driver was dead when he left him, so it had to hav
e been dumb luck on the cops’ part. But what if it wasn’t? What if the driver had kept the boy up front in the truck? What if the boy heard the driver’s plans to meet with Coyote? That information alone wasn’t enough to lead them directly to him, but it was more than Coyote wanted to be known.
The policeman giving the interview was chatty and full of himself. Either this Deputy Chief Dick was a complete fool, or he thought he was being shrewd by using the news media to try to draw Coyote out. He wasn’t being shrewd. He was just another self-important prick. If he was an example of the best Evansville had to offer, there was no need to worry. But the other guy—Murphy. He was a hard man.
Coyote had killed many people, both in the war in Vietnam and in the war here in America, but he had his limits. He wouldn’t do a cop. He was a patriot. He had conflicting feelings. He had to protect himself so he could continue to do his work. If the cop, Murphy, threatened all that Coyote had done—would do—he had to be dealt with. Coyote would return to Evansville and...
He felt a presence and turned instinctively. He’d been so immersed in the news story he hadn’t noticed the waitress had come up behind. She was reading what he’d written in his notebook and turned away quickly. He judged by her expression that she was disgusted, scared, didn’t understand what she was reading.
“You a writer or something?” the girl asked.
Coyote said, “Thrillers.” He closed the notebook and put it back in his coat.
She eyed the twenty dollars on his table. “You don’t want this stuff, I’ll get you something else, mister.”
Coyote’s response was to push the plate toward her. She cleared the table, snatched the money, and headed for the counter. Coyote followed.
Chapter 11
“Just shoot me?” Jack said after Channel Six Breaking News ended.
“Looks like your friend Claudine let the cat out of the bag, pod’na. And she got Deputy Chief Dick to give them a sound bite,” Liddell said.
“First of all, she’s not my friend, Bigfoot,” Jack said. “Second, Double Dick can give me a ‘sound’ bite. He’ll be giving tours of the crime scene next.”