The first one involved a fanatical religious group that called themselves The Avenging Angels. They believed that Kansas City, with its bars and strip clubs was their Sodom and Gomorrah, and that they had been commissioned by God to rain His fire and brimstone upon the city.
In the second one, Ox and I went undercover in a sting operation at Gordon’s Orchard where we smoked out a conspiracy between the FDA and a large pharmaceutical company.
The last involved a plot to assassinate the President of the United States. A Kansas City man had been recruited for the job and had been sent to the Ozark Militia, a radical group hiding in the Ozark Hills, for training.
Needless to say, I had met some people there and we had remained friends.
After sharing all of this with Blaylock, he said, “Is there someone you can call that can tell us about this piece of property?”
I was way ahead of him.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“Dan here.”
“Dan the Catfish Man. This is Walt Williams.”
Willie and I had met Dan several years ago. He was a fishing guide on the Osage and had lived in St. Clair County all his life. If anyone knew about the Red Rock Addition, it would be Dan. I had kept in touch in case I ever got the hankering to fish for the big flatheads that roamed the river.
“Well I’ll be damned! Walt the cop. Haven’t heard from you in a coon’s age. You ready to set out some trot lines?”
“Not this time, and I’m not a cop anymore. I’m a private investigator and I need your help.”
“Sure, partner. What can I do you for?”
“Have you heard of the Red Rock Addition?”
“Hell yes! Anybody that’s lived in these parts knows about Red Rock. You get to it off Highway B, north of town. It’s a fishing camp right on the river. It’s mostly trailer houses and small fishing cabins, but there’s a few nice places too. The ones right on the bluff overlooking the river and the Osage Valley are pretty special.”
I got specific directions, thanked him and promised that Ox and I would come fish with him someday.
Blaylock overheard the entire conversation.
“Looks like were heading to St. Clair County!”
Blaylock’s first call was to the Sheriff of St. Clair County. The last thing we wanted to do was step on the toes of local law enforcement. He agreed to meet us at the entrance to the camp.
After two hours on the road, we turned off Highway B onto the gravel road that would take us to the Red Rock fishing camp.
Just as Dan had said, the place was filled with single and double-wide trailers mixed with rustic cabins. Sheriff Potee was waiting for us.
My first impression was that we had somehow taken a wrong turn and landed in Mayberry. Potee was the spitting image of Andy Griffith.
After a few words of explanation from Blaylock, Potee gave us his blessing and said he’d tag along just in case we needed anything.
Good old country hospitality.
At one of the first trailers, an elderly man was raking and burning leaves. We pulled to the side of the road and I hopped out. The old guy looked like he’d been there forever and would probably know which place belonged to the McClouds.
As I approached, I heard an ungodly howl and a huge floppy-eared blood hound came loping from under the front porch. I’m not a big fan of dogs and I froze as he made a bee-line for my crotch. His snoot was dripping with slobbers which he deposited on my fly while rooting his nose in my privates.
“Rufus! Down boy!” the old man shouted.
Reluctantly, Rufus backed away and gave his head a big shake which sprayed his remaining drool on my coat.
“He don’t mean no harm,” the man said. “But he’d lick you death if’n I’d let him.”
He looked at the small convoy of SUV’s that were parked on the gravel road. “What can I do for you city boys?”
“We’re looking for the McCloud property Do you know which one it is?”
“Sure do. It’s one of the best spots in the whole camp. Sits right on the bluff overlooking the river. You can see for miles from their front porch.”
“What can you tell us about the McClouds?”
“Malcom and Beatrice used to come all the time until he took sick. Malcom was one hell of a crappie fisherman. Haven’t seen much of them for the past few years.”
“What about their son Harold?”
“Worthless as tits on a fish. He never took to the river like his old man.”
That was the second time I had heard that expression. Kevin had said that about me when I was fidgeting in the car with my kidney stone stints. I was learning a lot about fish anatomy. Apparently the scaly creatures don’t suckle their young.
I got specific directions to the McCloud property and thanked the man for his time.
As I turned to walk away, old Rufus took a parting shot and buried his nose in my kiester.
My dripping crotch did not go unnoticed by my ever vigilant comrades.
Kevin couldn’t resist. “You look like a pervert that just came out of a peep show at a triple-x theatre.”
There’s just no such thing as dignity at a fishing camp.
We followed the old man’s directions and took the right fork at the next intersection. When we came to the end of the road, the vista that appeared was breathtaking. The cabin sat high on the bluff, and a hundred feet below, the Osage River ran from west to east. Like Dan said, you could see miles across the valley below.
The thing that spoiled our view was the sight of Harold McCloud standing on the very edge of the bluff with a pistol pointed at Jason Marks.
Evidently he had seen our convoy approaching.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said, menacingly, “or I’ll shoot the kid and toss him in the river.”
Blaylock’s men had spread out and had rifles trained on McCloud.
“Harold, we need to talk,” I said. “There are some things you don’t know.”
“Nothing to talk about,” he replied. “I lost the only two people in my life that I cared about, and I just want someone --- anyone --- to know what it feels like to have a loved one taken from them.”
He moved closer to the edge of the bluff.
“What you don’t know, is how and why your father died. I’m guessing you thought it was because of something that the doctors and nurses either did or didn’t do, but that’s not the case. Your father was murdered. The hospital staff had nothing to do with it.”
I saw the look of disbelief register on his face. “Murdered? Why? And by whom?”
We had come to the moment of truth. How he would react after I gave him the details of his father’s death would determine his fate and that of his captive.
“Harold, listen to me closely. The man you are holding, Jason Marks, killed your father and four other victims.”
He looked at Jason questioningly. “But why?”
“Right now, the ‘why’ is not as important as what you are going to do next. We need to talk about that.”
On the drive from Kansas City, we had discussed with Blaylock what our strategy would be if this exact situation would arise. Harold McCloud was a geek and a nerd, but not a cold-blooded killer. He didn’t have so much as a parking ticket. He had acted out of angst and a broken heart and had lashed out without really thinking things through.
We had decided that we would give him an alternative --- a free pass if he was willing to take it.
Once the information that the man he was holding was responsible for his father’s death registered, he put the gun to Jason’s head.
“Harold, before you pull that trigger, I want you to consider two possibilities. You can certainly shoot Jason to get your revenge, but we both know how that will end. You’ll take a bullet too, and Jason will have been responsible for another death in the McCloud family.
“There is another alternative. Jason Marks is a serial killer and you have apprehended him. Turn him over to us, lay down
your weapon, and you can be a hero instead of another listing in the obituary column.”
He thought for a moment. “You --- you mean I won’t be arrested for kidnapping?”
“Let’s not call it kidnapping. Let’s call it apprehending a dangerous criminal. Marks will stand trial for all five murders and the other families that have lost loved ones like you will have closure. You’ll be their hero.”
He thought a moment more, and we all let out a breath when he shoved Marks toward us and laid down his gun.
What we had done was not exactly orthodox, but at the end of the day, I was confident that Lady Justice had prevailed.
The hospital, while happy that the string of mysterious deaths had come to an end, was adamant that we try to keep the details under wraps. Although the hospital staff was not to blame, they certainly needed to take a closer look at their security.
Harold McCloud was having none of it. Having lived his life as a Casper Milquetoast, he seized the opportunity to bask in his fifteen minutes of fame.
He was interviewed by local TV stations and a front page story ran in the Kansas City Star, giving all the gory details about the five murders.
I could just picture the smug look on Harold’s face when he looked at the headline, SON OF MURDER VICTIM APPREHENDS SERIAL KILLER.
Sometimes reality is stranger than fiction.
CHAPTER 17
Scott Banks looked around Danny Durbin’s dingy apartment. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and empty pizza boxes from Domino’s were piled three deep on the end table. A stack of X-rated CD’s were by the TV.
Scott was confident that if Durbin passed away before receiving a heart transplant, society wouldn’t be losing much.
If eliminating Durbin from the United Network for Organ Sharing waiting list enhanced his wife’s chances of getting a new lease on life, then Durbin would have to go.
Scott had been at his wit’s end watching his wife, Laurie, slowly wither away. She had suffered a heart attack which had resulted in severe damage to the heart muscle. With its diminished capacity to pump blood to the other organs, her body had begun to shut down. The once energetic mother of two daughters, ages six and eight, now barely had the strength to crawl out of bed to see them off to school each morning. Scott had hired a care-giver to come into their home each day to keep the house clean, the laundry done and food on the table. Without a transplant, her cardiologist had given her three more months at the most.
He knew the chances weren’t good. Almost eighty thousand people were on the waiting list, hoping and praying for a miracle, but in 2014, only 27,000 people received transplants. The grim statistic was that twenty-one people die every day waiting for a transplant that never comes. He vowed that he would do anything to keep Laurie from being one of those twenty-one.
Then, one morning, he read a headline in the Kansas City Star, SON OF MURDER VICTIM APPREHENDS SERIAL KILLER.
The story told how the jealous boyfriend of a cardiac nurse killed five heart patients by injecting them with potassium chloride hoping that she would give up her demanding job to spend more time with him. The murders went undetected because the potassium chloride simply stopped the heart from beating, something that was to be expected with critical heart patients.
After reading the story, he began to put together a plan. He knew that the waiting list was not like waiting in line at the DMV for your number to be called. The list was more like a pool of people, and when a donor heart became available, a recipient was chosen based on medical emergency, blood and tissue matches, time on the list and proximity to the donor organ. Over 80% of all transplants took place where the donor and the recipient were in the same geographical area. Factors such as a patient’s income, celebrity, race or ethnic background were not considered in allocating the donated organs.
His wife was competing with others in the Kansas City area for the next heart that came along. There was no way of knowing who was actually on the list. That was proprietary information available only to a select group of people.
But there was another way.
He and Laurie had become members of an organ transplant support group. The purpose of the group was to provide information about the process, but more importantly, to provide encouragement to those on the list desperately hoping for a miracle.
The members of this support group were actually the people competing with Laurie for a life-saving transplant. He reasoned that if he could eliminate the competitors, it would enhance his wife’s chances of getting a new heart.
At first, he dismissed the idea. He was a husband and father, not a cold-blooded killer, but as he watched his wife become weaker by the day, it became easier to rationalize the idea.
While at one of the support group meetings, he analyzed who was there. Many were in the same situation as his family, mothers and fathers with children, but there were also people like Danny Durbin, whom he considered to be the dregs of society. He knew that he was playing God, making judgments as to who was worthy of living and who was not, but at that point, he didn’t really care. He couldn’t bear the thought of his girls growing up without their mother.
The first one had been the most difficult. As much as he wanted to see his wife live, it was still difficult to take the life of another human being. He was able to overcome his reluctance by reasoning that these people were terminal and the chances of them ever receiving a transplant were slim and none. He was only speeding up the inevitable.
The second one had been easier, and now, sitting in Danny Durbin’s filthy apartment, he had no regrets at all. In fact, he was probably doing society a favor.
He had followed Danny to the theatre and watched him buy a ticket to 50 Shades of Grey. He knew that he would have plenty of time to get to his apartment and wait for his return.
When he heard the key rattle in the lock, he slipped behind the door. He was ready with the rag soaked in chloroform when Danny stepped into the room.
After a brief struggle, Danny went limp and Scott dragged him to the recliner in front of the TV. After injecting the potassium chloride in his neck, he loosened Danny’s pants, exposing his genitals. Then he popped one of the X-rated videos in the recorder and turned it on.
When Danny was found, it would be obvious that his heart just wasn’t strong enough for the sexual stimulation. The ads on TV for Viagra and Cialis tell you to ask your doctor if your heart is healthy enough for sex.
Everyone would just assume that Danny’s was not.
I had just returned from a trip to the super market and was putting away the groceries when the phone rang.
“Walt, this is Liz Crane. Do you have a minute?”
I had seen my half-sister/cardiologist a couple of times since my surgery. After reviewing a new EKG and echocardiogram, she had pronounced me fit at my last visit and said my rehabilitation was proceeding according to schedule. I hoped she wasn’t calling to give me news to the contrary.
“It depends. Are you calling as my cardiologist or my sister?”
She laughed. “A little of both, I guess. It’s nothing to do with your surgery. I just need to talk. Do you have time to see me?”
I was relieved. “Absolutely, come on over.”
When she was comfortably seated in my office, she said, “First, I wanted to tell you what a great job you and your team did in uncovering the cause of those tragic deaths in the hospital. I was proud to tell people that you are my brother.”
“And I want to thank you again for what you, the surgeon and those wonderful nurses did for me. I’m just glad we could help.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’m hoping you can help me again. I can’t prove it, but I think we might have a copycat.”
“At the hospital?”
“No, at one of my support groups. You know that since my husband died, I only work three days a week at the clinic. One of the other things I do is sponsor a support group for people who are waiting for a donor and their families.”
> I was familiar with the groups. When Kevin was waiting for a donor kidney, I had gone to a meeting with him. At that time, we were actually trolling for a contact that would supply him with a black market kidney. We hit pay dirt and it led us to an organ trading ring that had set up shop in Kansas City.
“So what’s happening with your group that has you concerned?”
“Three of my members have died.”
“These people are all terminal or they wouldn’t be on the transplant waiting list. I know many of them pass away before they find a donor.”
“That’s true, we do lose someone occasionally, but all three of these deaths have happened since the story came out in the Star about the murders at the hospital.”
“Okay, I can see how that might have given someone some ideas, but what’s the motive?”
“The only thing I can think of, is that someone is eliminating the competition. If a heart comes available, we look for people right here in Kansas City first. The fewer people on the list, the better some else’s chances are.”
“Wow! That’s pretty extreme.”
“Walt, we’re talking about life and death here. That can be a strong motivator.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. How can I help?”
“I’d like you come to one of our group meetings. If someone is actually systematically eliminating other potential recipients, they’re probably attending the meetings. That’s the only way they would know who’s on the list. As an outsider, maybe you can spot something that I’m overlooking.”
If there actually was a copycat bumping people off, we could thank Harold McCloud and his fifteen minutes of fame.
I decided to get Kevin involved. He had actually been a potential recipient, and at his age, a long shot candidate to receive a transplant, so he was one who had faced the possibility of checking out before finding a donor. I thought maybe he might be more tuned in to someone desperate enough to commit murder to get a heart.
I was amazed. There were maybe forty people attending the group meeting. They came in all shapes and sizes, men, women, blacks, Asians, fat, skinny, and bald. If one of them was indeed a killer, it wouldn’t be an easy task picking him or her out of such a diverse crowd.
Lady Justice and the Broken Hearts Page 10