Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

  When Cuszack was discharged from the hospital in September of 1974, the last thing he saw was the expressionless face of Vernon Slocum staring silently after him.

  That same expressionless face was now staring back at Cuszack more than thirteen years later.

  “You got anything to drink around here?” asked Slocum in a monotone.

  “I got some tequila and bourbon; whichever you want, old buddy.”

  “Both.”

  Cuszack disappeared into the kitchenette and reappeared a moment later with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of Cuervo. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring a glass. Slocum took the bottles.

  “I’m going to rest here for a while,” Slocum said, after taking a long swig from each bottle. “When I wake up I want you to have somebody lined up for me to deal with. You know some people who can help me, don’t you Buddy?”

  “Yeah, sure Vern,” sputtered Cuszack. “How much you willing to spend? I mean, if I knew the price range it would help.”

  “Don’t worry about money. Just set it up.” Slocum stared into Cuszack’s frightened eyes. “You ain’t gonna let me down, are you Buddy?”

  Cuszack swallowed hard. His hands trembled and the cigarette between his lips twitched. “Course not, Vern. You can count on me. Don’t worry. You just go to sleep, and I’ll get right on it.”

  “OK.” Slocum took another long pull from the bourbon bottle, and tossed Cuszack the keys to his truck. “It’s got a full tank of gas, and it’s a four-wheel drive. It’ll get you around in this storm. When you get back, wake me up.”

  “Sure, anything you say.” Cuszack put on his parka.

  “One more thing, Buddy,” Slocum said. “Don’t tell nobody I’m here. Nobody. You got that?”

  Cuszack nodded. Slocum appeared out of the past like a phantom, with blood on his face and his eyes burning. He wanted weapons and meth, and barked requests like orders. Things didn’t look good to Buddy Cuszack, but he knew better than to disobey. He tried to conceal his fear of the imposing figure sitting on his couch, drinking his liquor.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Deputy Kevin Kearns was going stir-crazy. He’d been sitting in the dingy roadside motel for the better part of two days with nothing but the daily game shows, soap operas, and MTV for company. If he never saw another Terence Trent D’Arby or Cyndi Lauper video, or heard U2’s “With or Without You” again, it would be too soon. Meals he ordered from the truck stop across the highway. If he never had another piece of chicken-fried steak again, it would also be too soon.

  Sergeant Evers phoned last night but had nothing to report. He told Kevin in his relaxed drawl to sit tight. He promised to call sometime today.

  Kearns was doing push-ups alternating with sit-ups. He’d done hundreds of these each day, partly out of boredom, partly out of necessity. The exercise briefly took his mind off his troubles. He didn’t know when he was going to get a chance to visit a gym or run again.

  He got up from the worn carpet and wiped the sweat from his brow with a motel towel. He went to the window and parted the curtains.

  The world outside was pristine white, the sky a haze of snow-filled gray. Occasionally trucks and automobiles braved the road, but Kearns could tell by their greatly reduced speed that it was slick outside. An illuminated clock/thermometer/billboard at the truck stop showed the temperature as five degrees Fahrenheit.

  Kearns left the window and sat on the bed. He hadn’t slept much during the two nights he’d been at the motel. Visions of the incident at the schoolyard played again and again in his head, and would jar him to wakefulness each time he drifted to sleep.

  What happened at the station also nagged at him. He knew he shouldn’t have hit the FBI man, but saw red when the agent implied he was responsible for the loss of Tiffany Meade. How could he have been responsible for what happened? He did all he could. He’d been lucky to escape with his life.

  He knew the public’s perception of the horrific incident was clouded with anger, grief, and a need to lay blame. A child was dead, and doing his best to prevent it hadn’t been enough. A brave schoolteacher was also dead. Like him, she’d done her best to prevent the tragedy and it cost her life.

  What Sergeant Evers told him at the hospital was true. People would try to make sense of what happened, though maybe there was none to be made. And part of that process for many people would be finding someone to blame. Folks were struggling to understand why he survived and Tiffany Meade did not. He’d be easy to point the finger at; he was a cop. When the sheep get attacked by a wolf, they blame the sheepdog. Even Kearns, with less than a year on the job, knew that.

  Kevin Kearns had been raised by his mother as an only child. It wasn’t until he was thirteen he learned she’d never married his father, and didn’t even know his whereabouts. He took the news indifferently. It was hard to miss what he’d never known.

  Kevin’s mother died of lung cancer when he was in the army. He took it hard, grieved, and returned to finish his tour in the infantry. He was thankful she wasn’t alive now to experience the events currently occurring in his life.

  Sheriff Coates could be counted on to disassociate himself from Kearns, and according to Detective Parish had already begun doing just that. And the FBI could now be counted as an enemy, though hardly friendly before.

  He didn’t know what to do next. The TV newscasts reported the “dragnet,” as it was being called, had netted no suspects and few leads. The child-killing, almost three days cold, continued to dominate the news. There was a lot of speculation, and many different theories, about the identity and motive of the killer. Kearns’ name was mentioned occasionally, followed by hints of police cover-up. It was unsettling, and he would have switched off the television, except that it was his only contact with the outside world.

  He got off the bed and headed for a shower. He was undressing when the phone rang. He leaped over the bed and picked up the phone by the end of the first ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Kevin, it’s Dick Evers. How you doing?”

  “I’m getting a little edgy, Sarge. Otherwise I’m OK.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

  “We’ve got to take you to the station. I’ve delayed it as long as I could. The investigation’s going nowhere and you’ve got to be re-interviewed.” After a too-long pause, Evers went on, “There’s something else. They’re going to charge you with assault and battery on that special agent you clouted.”

  “I figured as much,” Kearns said. “That way they can roast me in the press. The FBI’s got to have a reason to explain why they haven’t made any progress on this thing yet. I’m going to be the reason.”

  “You knew it was coming,” Evers said. “The Full Blown Idiots are under a lot of pressure, and they’re experienced witch-hunters. By attacking you they divert attention away from the fact they’ve got zilch on the killer.”

  “Am I going to be suspended or fired?”

  “I don’t know, Kevin. Maybe both. You’ve got to prepare yourself for the worst. I’ll be with you as long as I can, and so will Detective Parish. But don’t kid yourself; it’s going to get rough. I want you to get a handle on your temper this time around; do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear. I promise not to deck any more federal bureaucrats.”

  “That’s exactly what they want you to do. They’ll bait you; don’t let them. Your freedom could be riding on this.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Kearns, dejectedly. “I’ll keep it together.”

  “Rod will be out to get you in an hour. It’ll take that long to reach you, the way the roads are. He’ll drop you by your place to change into something nice; a suit if you’ve got one. Use the time to rehearse what you’re going to say; go over different scenarios in your head. It’ll help prepare you.”

  “Do you really think it’ll be that bad?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Retired San Fran
cisco Police Inspector Robert Farrell parked the rented Oldsmobile in a visitors stall at the Story County Sheriff’s Department and got out of the car reluctantly. The Iowa wind was like nothing he’d ever experienced; it tore through him like a blade. The thin lining of his California raincoat did little to impede the frigid air’s passage through his equally thin body. With his feet crunching and slipping in the snow he skidded to the rear of the Olds and opened the trunk with numb fingers.

  “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” he cursed in the flailing wind. “How does anybody live in this icebox?” His thinning hair flew over his exposed head, and he ducked under the trunk lid for the windbreak it provided. Rummaging through the trunk he located his shoebox filled with business cards. After sorting through the box with numb fingers he found the card he was searching for. He also brought out a worn but expensive leather briefcase.

  In the Sheriff’s Department lobby was a large sign which read, RE-ELECT COATES FOR COUNTY SHERIFF. A VOTE FOR BUCK WILL BRING YOU LUCK!

  He took a moment to comb his hair and straighten out his storm-disheveled appearance. Looking around to ensure there were no onlookers, he withdrew his flask from a side pocket and took a long gulp. It warmed him instantly and took away the involuntary shivers that had racked his body since he got off the plane in Des Moines. He popped a breath mint into his mouth and approached a sergeant sitting at a desk at the end of the hall.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Deputy Kevin Kearns, please.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. There’s no visitors allowed. You press?”

  “No,” Farrell said in an indignant voice, “I am certainly not the press. I’m his attorney. If he is in conference without me present there will be grave consequences. Please notify whoever is in charge immediately.”

  The sergeant gave Farrell a look which denoted the feelings all cops have for attorneys and picked up a phone.

  “Someone will be down in a minute to get you.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “No sweat,” said the sergeant sarcastically. “Anything for a member of the Bar.” The sergeant turned back to what he was doing before Farrell came in.

  Farrell stifled a grin, reassured by the sergeant’s demeanor. Cops are cops, he thought, no matter where they are.

  A moment later two men entered the lobby from an interior door. Farrell recognized one as a Bureau man instantly. The FBI had a dress code as distinct as the Queen’s Royal Guard, and could be spotted a mile away by anyone with any previous exposure to the agency.

  This one looked in his early thirties, with a salon-trimmed hairstyle and a three-piece suit that did a poor job of concealing the revolver on his hip. The man accompanying him was surely a cop. He wore a look of bored disinterest and was clad in a wrinkled, off-the-rack suit. His hair had the look of the six-dollar barber, and he was sporting a large wad of chewing tobacco in his distended jaw. They approached Farrell.

  “Hello,” spoke power-suit first, “I’m Special Agent Lefferty. What can I do for you?” The fact that the FBI man didn’t introduce his associate was not lost on Farrell. Farrell stuck his hand out to the cop and said, “I’m Bob Lyons, from Legal Defense. Who are you?”

  “Rod Parish, Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Farrell. “Where’s my client? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “You’re representing Kearns?” interjected Lefferty. “We weren’t advised of any attorney. I’m going to have to get this approved with my supervisor.”

  “You’ll do nothing except take me to my client,” Farrell cut in. “You have been advised of my identity and purpose. To deny my client legal representation is in violation of his Peace Officers’ Bill of Rights, state law, and the Constitution. I’m surprised as a Bureau man you don’t know that. You will take me to my client immediately, or believe me, Special Agent Lefferty, there will be consequences. I thought all you FBI chaps had law degrees these days. You should know better.”

  The sheriff’s detective was smiling, obviously deriving pleasure at the discomfort of the special agent. “C’mon,” he said to Farrell. “I’ll take you to see Deputy Kearns right away.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Farrell said courteously. As he followed Parish into an elevator, Lefferty remained in the lobby. The FBI agent picked up the desk sergeant’s phone and feverishly began dialing numbers. The elevator doors closed. Farrell grinned at the sheriff’s deputy. The deputy spat a glob of brown juice on the elevator floor. “God I hate those pompous fucks.”

  Farrell laughed. “Where I come from we call the FBI, ‘Fan Belt Installers.’”

  Parish chuckled. “I’ll remember that one. But it’s only fair to warn you: I don’t like attorneys much better.”

  “Who could blame you?” Farrell answered truthfully.

  The elevator doors opened and he followed the deputy to a room filled with lounging men. Most wore the look of the working cop so familiar to Farrell, but there were a few who looked federal. Their attention was focused on a glass window through which was visible a young man seated at a table. A tape recorder was on the table and two men were inside the room, obviously interrogating the seated man, who appeared relaxed. The appearance was deceiving, however; Farrell noticed patches of sweat soaking the man’s underarms, chest, and back. Deputy Kearns, no doubt.

  Farrell felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Lefferty, the snotty special agent. He must have come up the stairs.

  “Mister Lyons, my supervisor would like a word with you. If you’ll come with me, please?”

  Detective Parish edged close to Farrell and whispered, “Watch your back, Lyons. If you think Lefferty is a dick, wait till you meet his boss.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Farrell followed the special agent into an office. Behind a large desk sat a fat man with the reddened face of a regular, heavy drinker. Farrell knew the look well. On the desk was a gold-embossed placard reading, BUCK COATES, SHERIFF.

  Standing next to the desk was a short, thin man in a pin-striped suit of expensive cut. The man had a plaster cast taped over his nose, and both eyes were rimmed in black. He vaguely resembled one of those weirdly masked professional wrestlers on Spanish TV. Farrell suppressed a chuckle.

  “Bob Lyons, from Legal Defense,” Farrell extended his hand. In it was a business card reading Carruthers & Lyons, Attorneys at Law. Below the title was an elegantly engraved Union Square address in San Francisco. Sheriff Coates took the card, and after glancing at it briefly, handed it to the other man.

  “I’m Steve Scanlon, Special Agent in Charge.” Scanlon didn’t offer his hand to Farrell. “This is Sheriff Coates, whose department has territorial jurisdiction.” Scanlon was still glancing at the business card Farrell handed him, and did not look up.

  “What’s an attorney all the way from San Francisco doing here, Mister Lyons?” His voice was altered because of his broken nose, and made him sound as if he had a terrific head cold. “Mister Lyons” came out as “Bister Lyods.”

  “My firm contracts to Legal Defense for peace officers, and I go where I’m sent,” Farrell lied smoothly. He spoke as if this was a question he answered regularly with a prescribed response. “As you probably know,” he lied on, “this case has already garnered a high degree of notoriety and has national implications. Therefore it is being monitored by watchdog organizations who wish to ensure the propriety of the investigation.”

  “What kind of double-talk bullshit is that?” asked Scanlon. “What watchdog organizations? I’ve never heard of any such organizations, and I’ve overseen a few investigations in my day. I don’t like you, Lyons, and I don’t like what you stand for. Maybe you’d better leave.”

  Farrell noticed a look of chagrin on Sheriff Coates’ face. It confirmed his suspicions of how little power the sheriff wielded in this incident. Coates obviously didn’t want to pick up any bad press going into re-election season next year and had sub
sequently given the feds free rein. It was the smart thing for a rural county sheriff to do. If the child-killing investigation was successful he could share the spotlight and the glory. If it flopped, he could distance himself and let the Bureau take the fall. Either way, somebody else did all the heavy lifting and took all the heat.

  It accounted for why the young deputy he saw in the interrogation room was getting the third degree by the feds with no intervention from Coates. They were going to sacrifice the deputy. Offer up a scapegoat to divert the negative public sentiment towards the sheriff’s department and Bureau in the wake of the child-killing. Farrell had seen it before in high-profile investigations.

  It was time for Farrell to take the offensive. He set his briefcase confidently on Coates’ desk and smiled. Coates still looked nervous and Scanlon was watching him warily.

  “So, you don’t know who I represent? And because you haven’t heard of an organization, it must therefore be bogus?” Farrell paused, shaking his head for dramatic effect. “Your ignorance is profound. Just who do you think you’re dealing with?”

  Scanlon’s face reddened. He wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to in this manner. It contrasted sharply with the white plaster on his nose. He didn’t answer Farrell’s question.

  “I’ll tell you who you’re dealing with. Who heard of child kidnappings five years ago? It was an isolated crime, dealt with on the local law enforcement level. Not any more. Now we have prime-time TV shows devoted to the issue. Watched Donahue lately? We have missing and exploited children on the sides of every milk carton from here to Hong Kong. We have delivery trucks, union delivery trucks I might add, using their valuable advertising space to broadcast pictures of missing kids.”

  Farrell looked up from his briefcase to see if his words were having effect. They were. Sensing advantage, he pressed on.

  “Do you think my coming here is paid for out of charity, Special Agent Scanlon? Are you that naïve?”