Wounded Prey

by Sean Lynch

“Put your hands on the wheel. If you try any more stupid tricks I’ll blow your lungs out.”

  Kearns did as he was told.

  “Sit quiet. You wanted answers, didn’t you?”

  Farrell leaned back in the seat, away from Kearns, and took the gun from against his ribs. He lit a cigarette, covering the younger cop with the revolver.

  “You were howling for an explanation a few minutes ago. If you don’t like what you hear we’ll drive back to the station. You have my word. Is it a deal?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Special Agent Steve Scanlon was not a happy man. He sat in Sheriff Coates’ office blinking his eyes as hard and as regularly as possible. Through this facial contortion he was able to move his nose slightly inside its plaster cast and alleviate the itch that was driving him crazy.

  It was after 1600 hours, and there was still no word from Deputy Kearns or his smart-ass lawyer. Sergeant Evers had been on the phone for over an hour trying to locate the young deputy. It was likely the blizzard had delayed their return, but even that possibility was becoming remote.

  Evers checked with the State Patrol, and though many of the highways were closed due to the storm, there were no reports of accidents which would account for the deputy’s absence. He was supposed to be back at 1300 hours; that was the arrangement with his attorney. Even if he’d been delayed, surely he could have made a phone call. Sheriff Coates could offer no explanation for the loss of his employee and Scanlon was beginning to suspect a conspiracy by Evers or that wise-guy detective, Parish. Scanlon hated the redneck cops and their scarcely concealed contempt for the federal agents, and wished he didn’t have to work with such backwoods clods on so sensitive and important an investigation.

  Two of the agents assigned to him had already been diverted, accompanying the State Fire Marshal to a remote area of western Iowa known as Coon Rapids. Apparently there’d been an explosion and fire there, and sheriff’s deputies on the scene reported the origin of the fire as a possible clandestine narcotics laboratory.

  Washington was calling daily, contributing to Scanlon’s problems. The Assistant Director wanted constant updates on the status of the investigation, and promised to send agents specializing in Crimes Against Children as soon as the weather permitted it. He was relieved the storm delayed the additional personnel, as he wasn’t ready to relinquish control of the investigation until a solid lead was produced. Scanlon didn’t mind extra help, but too much of the FBI’s resources were devoted to promoting the Bureau’s public image and the political aspirations of the Washington division chiefs, and not enough to the agents in the field.

  So far, the investigation had turned up little in the way of actionable leads. The autopsy on the teacher revealed she was shot at point blank range with a .45 caliber handgun. Ballistics details would take several more days, even with the priority assigned to this case. The shell casing found at the scene, a standard brass .45 ACP Federal, was worthless without the gun that fired it. The shell casing would be invaluable in identifying the gun once located, but of little help in locating the firer. The indentation on the primer, and the extractor and ejector markings, were as distinct as fingerprints; but like fingerprints, worthless without fingers to match.

  The victim, Tiffany Meade, was found west of Des Moines on Interstate 80 hanging from a tree. Preliminary autopsy information indicated the child suffered a fractured jaw and cranium prior to death. Scanlon took comfort knowing Tiffany Meade likely never regained consciousness from her original concussion. She’d been raped and sodomized, with semen residue discovered in both vaginal and rectal orifices. The bodily fluid evidence was also useless without a suspect to match for comparison. The hair and fiber evidence left by the suspect was limited for the same reasons.

  There wasn’t much else to go on. The station wagon used in the kidnapping was found under a bridge in Ames, Iowa, and Detective Parish himself personally supervised the latent fingerprint search of the vehicle. The only such prints found in the car were those of the retired farmer who reported the vehicle stolen two days prior to the kidnapping. The farmer’s alibi and character were credible and airtight.

  An accurate suspect description was also proving difficult to obtain. Besides Deputy Kearns, the only other witnesses were a terrified young teacher and a group of preschool children. Kearns gave an Identi-Kit description to Detective Parish which was remarkable in its detail. But how good could a drawing be? And how accurate could Deputy Kearns’ observations of the suspect be if he suffered a concussion just after making them. So, as Scanlon saw it, the only reliable description of an at-large child-murderer was based on the memory of a rookie cop who’d been knocked unconscious immediately after viewing the killer.

  The thirty miles distance between the kidnapping-murder and the discovery of the child’s body indicated the suspect obviously had access to another vehicle; it too was probably stolen. All stolen-auto reports were being checked and re-checked.

  Scanlon’s men, as well as deputies, were also checking the known sex offenders’ files. The records check was tedious and time-consuming, and so far yielded no results. Deputies, detectives, state police, and special agents rounded up known sex offenders and conducted interviews around the clock.

  There’d been a tremendous media blitz; beneficial in some respects, and a hindrance in others. Scanlon had to badger the sheriff to issue orders forbidding deputies from conversing with the press. The kidnap-murder was commanding most of the TV and news coverage, both on the local and state level. The only good thing produced by this media frenzy was the Identi-Kit drawing of the suspect was being broadcast on every television from Chicago to Omaha. Maybe somebody would see the suspect and call it in. It sometimes happened, but was extremely rare, and Scanlon didn’t believe in luck.

  Editorials in the local papers called for stepped-up police and sheriff’s patrols, and it was a blessing the blizzard kept children from school. Much was being written in the press about the bogeyman, as one Des Moines Register columnist dubbed the suspect. Though far from panic, popular sentiment surrounding the child-killing was closer to hysteria than Scanlon would have liked.

  Not that he didn’t expect it. From the moment the child was found hanging from a tree in broad daylight he knew it would be a career case. Scanlon knew all too well that FBI careers were made or broken during investigations like this one. He intended to ensure it was the former and not the latter.

  As much as he hated to agree with the lawyer from California who’d crashed into his office this morning, Lyons was right. The issue of exploited and abused children was receiving ever-increasing focus, and America was paying attention.

  Thinking of the Californian started Scanlon’s nose itching again, and he resisted the urge to scratch it with the eraser on his pencil. The doctor who set it warned him any unnecessary movement could result in complications. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the business card he’d been given by the Californian attorney.

  Dialing long distance, he punched in the number at the bottom of the card. After only one ring a feminine voice answered.

  “Carruthers and Lyons. May I help you?”

  “Yes,” said Scanlon in his newly acquired nasal twang. “This is Special Agent Scanlon of the Des Moines Bureau of the FBI. I’d like to speak to someone in charge, please.”

  There was a brief pause. “Sir, if you could tell me what this is about, perhaps I could help you.”

  “I’m calling long distance from Iowa in regards to Mister Lyons. I’m having a bit of trouble locating him since he left my office this morning. Could you tell me which hotel in the greater Des Moines area he is staying at? You see, we’re in the midst of a blizzard and–”

  “Sir,” interrupted the voice, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mister Lyons just left the office for a golf date twenty minutes ago. Are you sure you have the right number?”

  Scanlon felt his throat sink into his stomach. He looked at the elegantly engraved business c
ard in his hand and quelled the impulse to crumble it in his fist.

  “Sir? Are you there?”

  He hung up. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the phone again. “Get me Sheriff Coates, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Agent Scanlon,” said the voice of the dispatcher. “The sheriff is out for the day. I can leave a message if you like?”

  “Yeah,” barked Scanlon angrily into the phone, “leave him this message. Tell him to get his drunk ass back to his office, pronto. Got that?”

  “Yes sir. I’ll relay the message.”

  “Thank you.” He slammed the phone down on its cradle. He went to the office door and opened it. The Investigations Division was filled with agents and deputies busily at their duties.

  “Tatters,” Scanlon called to one of his agents. “Round up Evers and Parish. Then you and Lefferty bring them to me in the sheriff’s office as soon as you can.”

  “OK, boss.”

  Within minutes the two special agents arrived with Evers and Parish in tow. After the group entered the office Scanlon told them to close the door. Evers and Parish both looked as though they hadn’t slept in several days. Parish munched on his trademark wad of tobacco.

  “Gentlemen,” Scanlon began dramatically. “You’re probably wondering why I called you here.”

  “Wow,” said Parish. “You gonna read us your will?”

  Evers laughed, and the two agents looked scornfully at the two deputies.

  “This is no laughing matter. I believe we’ve been duped.”

  “Duped?” asked Evers. “What the fuck does that mean? Duped?”

  “Don’t try to figure it out,” snickered Parish. “That’s secret agent talk. It’s above our heads. They learn that shit in Quantico, along with how to be snotty and use a decoder ring.”

  “That will be enough. We have a problem; one which will prove as embarrassing to my agency as yours.”

  “What are you babbling about, Scanlon?”

  “Our young deputy has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared? Just because he’s a little late returning to your inquisition doesn’t mean he should be put on the Ten Most Wanted list. He’s out with his lawyer. You’re the one who let him go, remember?”

  “I have only now discovered the attorney’s credentials were false. The organization which he alleged to represent claims no knowledge of him. I just got off the phone with them.”

  Evers glanced at Parish. Parish shrugged.

  “So,” Scanlon went on, “since nobody seems to know the current whereabouts of our young deputy, and since he’s several hours past due, I think we can safely assume he’s flown the coop.”

  “For Christ’s sakes,” Parish said. “What possible motive could Kevin have for splitting? He hasn’t done anything wrong. Why would he take off?”

  “I don’t know, but the fact remains he’s gone. And he happens to be the most significant piece of the investigation we have right now. Why wouldn’t he call, if he was merely late? And why would the man he left with falsify his identity in order to get him away from us?”

  “He’s right, Rod,” Evers said, shaking his head. “It’s pretty goddamned fishy. I don’t like it at all.”

  “Come on, Dick,” Parish said. “You don’t think Kevin would do anything crazy, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I can’t be sure.”

  “Well, what do you gentlemen suggest we do?” asked Scanlon.

  “I’ll send a deputy to his apartment,” said Evers. “And phone around to some of the local eateries favored by cops. He’s got no living relatives. I can’t think of anywhere else to try.”

  “How about a girlfriend?” asked Parish.

  The tall sergeant shook his head. “He never mentioned one. And he’s only been in the area a few months, since he got out of the academy. He was just remarking the other day about hardly knowing anybody in town.”

  “What if these efforts are fruitless?” Scanlon asked. “What then?”

  “What do you want to do?” Parish said. “Put out a ‘pick up and hold’ on him?”

  “I was thinking of exactly that,” said Scanlon.

  “I was joking,” Parish said. “Are you out of your fucking mind? He’s a cop, not a criminal.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Scanlon said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Take it easy, Rod,” Evers said. “Much as I hate to admit it, Scanlon’s right. Something’s going on here. Kevin is our only solid material witness. What if we get a line on this creep? Who’s going to identify him?”

  Parish spit a large glop of brown juice on the carpet. “I don’t believe it! You want to put out a BOLO for one of our own deputies?”

  “Detective Parish,” Scanlon said, “calm yourself. It’s not my intent to cause trouble for the deputy. But we’ve got to find him. What if something happened to him? This impostor waltzed in here and took him right out from under our noses. I thought he was an attorney with appropriate legal access to Kearns, and so did you. What if that’s also what Kearns thought?”

  “You think Kevin was kidnapped?”

  “It’s a possibility I haven’t eliminated, Sergeant. What if the killer had an accomplice? There are a number of possible explanations, but none of them add up. What I don’t know is who that man was who came in here and took Deputy Kearns or what his motives were. Do you?”

  “No, but I agree with you. We need to find out.”

  “Dick, don’t tell me you’re siding with this pencil-necked asshole?”

  “Rod, I ain’t siding with anybody. Scanlon is right; we’ve got to find Kevin. Something is definitely wrong.”

  “OK, let’s find him. But do we have to put a BOLO in the system for Kevin? Can’t we list him as a missing person?”

  Evers looked to Scanlon. Scanlon shrugged. “Why not? If we list him in BOLO, it’ll appear as if Kearns is a suspect. Better to list him as a missing person. Either way, the press is going to have a field day.”

  “Yeah,” said Parish. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Deputy vanishes. Only witness to child kidnapping whisked away by mysterious stranger.’ We’re going to look like a bunch of butter-fingered idiots.”

  “I suggest we don’t dwell on that too much,” Scanlon said. “Let’s get to work.”

  Evers and Parish took their cue and headed for the office door. Halfway out, Detective Parish turned back to Scanlon.

  “I’m sorry I called you an asshole and a pencil-neck, Agent Scanlon. I was pissed off and flapping my gums. I didn’t mean it.”

  “It’s forgotten,” Scanlon said loftily.

  Parish nodded and closed the office door. When they were well away from the office, Evers halted Parish with a hand on the shoulder.

  “You really sorry?”

  “Nah,” said the sheriff’s detective. “I had my fingers crossed when I apologized. He’s still a fucking pencil-neck asshole.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Kearns stared through the windshield at the blowing snow. With the engine of the Oldsmobile turned off the car was getting noticeably colder, and would soon be intolerable. Next to him, in the passenger seat, sat a man from California aiming a gun at his belly.

  Kearns glared at Farrell, who exhaled smoke and stamped out his cigarette. He tucked the revolver into its holster under his coat.

  “If you’ll be civil, Kevin, I won’t need the gun.”

  “Only my friends call me by my first name. I ought to punch your lights out.”

  “Could we turn the heater back on?” He handed the keys to Kearns. “I’m freezing. Besides, if you punch my lights out you won’t get answers, will you?”

  Kearns angrily switched on the ignition. A minute later the interior of the Olds was comfortably warm. Farrell extracted another cigarette from inside his pocket. He offered the pack to Kearns, who declined with a shake of his head.

  “Do all attorneys in California carry guns?”

  “Only in Los Angeles.” Farrell opened hi
s wallet, displaying his San Francisco star and ID. “I’m not a lawyer. I’m a cop from San Francisco. My name’s not Lyons; it’s Bob Farrell.”

  Kearns examined the wallet. “The ID card says you’re honorably retired. I guess you’re not even a cop anymore.”

  “I guess not,” said Farrell lighting his smoke. “Aren’t you wondering why a retired cop from San Francisco is in the middle of Iowa freezing his ass off?”

  “What I’m curious about is why you haven’t told anybody about this Slocum guy. It’s obvious you knew who he was all along. Your games have done nothing but delay his capture and get me in deeper trouble.”

  “A little more trouble won’t matter one way or the other.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The newspapers said you were a rookie,” Farrell said, “but I didn’t realize until I met you how green you were. You’re expendable, Deputy Kearns, and don’t even know it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I wasn’t just fucking around back at the VA hospital,” Farrell said. “I thought Slocum was the perp, but I couldn’t be sure. I needed you to see a picture of him to confirm it. I had to be certain.”

  “So why not get the file and show me the picture at the station?”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t get it,” Kearns said in exasperation. “Why don’t you assume I’m as dumb as you think, and spell it out for me?”

  “If you’d calm down, I will.”

  Kearns answered with silence.

  “Twenty years ago I was in the same place you are. With one exception: I caught him.”

  “Apparently he didn’t stay caught.”

  “Hell, kid, I don’t think he ever went to prison. It was in Vietnam. I was a military cop in Saigon.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Farrell ground out his cigarette in the rapidly-filling ashtray. “This guy Slocum is the real deal; an undiluted badass without a shred of remorse. He’s also a textbook sociopath, if you’re familiar with that term. One tough hombre, too.”