by Chris Culver
“Doug mentioned they had a lot of garbage. He also said they put bags of empty starter fluid canisters in with his trash. You find anything like that at the house?”
Jerry paused for a moment. “Yeah. I walked through about two weeks ago. Found, I don’t know, five or six cans beside their barn. I asked one of the guys there, and he said he liked fixing cars.”
“Did you smell anything?”
“Are you asking if I think it smelled like a meth lab?” asked Jerry. “Because if I smelled chemicals, I would have gotten a warrant and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I know how to do my job. We’re not just a bunch of hicks around here.”
“I know that,” said Ash. “I just have to cover all my bases. It’s nothing personal.”
“Yeah. If you need anything else, you can just leave a message. I’ll be sure to return your call.”
“Tha—”
Jerry hung up before Ash could finish speaking. Ash looked at his own phone and scowled before flipping through his address book. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to talk to Jerry again because Ash doubted he’d be up for doing him too many favors. As soon as he found it, he hit the CALL button on Bowers’s entry and waited for him to pick up.
“I’ve got a lieutenant colonel with the state police on hold,” said Bowers. “What have you got?”
“One of the houses we’re looking at is probably a meth lab. We might have enough to get a warrant. I want to show a picture of it to Frank Hayes and see if he recognizes it.”
“I’ll take care of that. You call the prosecutor’s office and start working on the warrant.”
“I’m on it.”
Ash hung up the phone with Bowers and went to work, writing two different probable cause statements. The first included just the information he received from Jerry as well as some background information, but the second included a potential ID of the location by Frank. Ash had quite a bit of confidence in the second statement; the first, though, they’d have to find a sympathetic judge to get signed. He called Susan Mercer next. They didn’t speak for very long, but she agreed to put her weight behind whatever they came up with. Hines and his entire crew had committed crimes that broke both state and federal law, so she also agreed to fight to keep the case in Indianapolis if the FBI tried to intervene post arrest. Both were helpful.
Ash called Bowers again.
“Susan’s a go. She’d prefer if we get an ID of the house from Frank Hayes, but she’s willing to try to get a warrant without it.”
“We’ll have to go without it,” said Bowers. “Hayes went nuts, so the hospital sedated him for his own safety. They gave him something to clear his body of opioids, and they’re going to keep him under until he’s clean.”
Ash winced but tried not to let his disappointment enter his voice.
“Susan will run the warrant application by a judge and said she’d fax it to us when she can.”
“Then we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. We’ll drive down together, so meet me out front. Get ready to work.”
27
By the time he got outside, darkness had fully descended upon the city. Rain caught the headlights of passing cars, splashing and glistening on the blacktop like quicksilver mirrors. Ash’s stomach rumbled as he smelled the sharp scent of oregano, basil, and bread wafting from a pizza place up the street. In the excitement of putting his warrant together, he had missed dusk prayer and dinner. God could probably forgive the former, but Ash’s stomach wouldn’t forgive the latter without consequences. He didn’t have time to stop for a meal anywhere, so he went back inside and bought a soda and the last two cold turkey sandwiches available in a vending machine in the building’s basement. His meager dinner wouldn’t tide him over for long, but it was better than nothing.
Bowers came down within a minute and suggested that they take Ash’s marked cruiser. The community relations’ vehicle would do little to strike fear in the hearts of the men they hoped to arrest, but its lights and siren would allow them to make better time on the interstate. Ash agreed, and they headed out. About twenty miles south of town, he pulled off at a gas station where he filled up his tank and bought a package of peanut butter crackers and a cup of double-caffeinated coffee. He didn’t plan on doing any heavy lifting tonight, so the crackers combined with what he had earlier ought to tide him over.
When he got back to the car, Bowers was on the phone. He gave Ash a thumbs-up, which, considering the circumstances, could have meant the state police picked up Alistair Hines walking beside the highway, an anonymous do-gooder rescued their trafficking victims on his own accord, or Bowers saved a boatload of money on his car insurance. Ash leaned against his cruiser, feeling the warm engine beneath him and listening to the consistent, dull roar from the interstate as he waited.
Bowers hung up shortly after Ash’s arrival.
“Mercer got the warrant,” he said. “She faxed it to ISP’s district headquarters in Sellersburg. We’ll meet our team there.”
“Did she say who signed it?”
“Thurman.”
That explained it. Judge Thurman had been a prosecuting attorney before joining the bench, and he signed a lot of warrants other judges would have rejected. Susan likely didn’t even have to beg.
“Then let’s go,” he said, yawning.
“You going to be able to stay awake for the drive?”
“I’m fine,” said Ash. “Just a little tired.”
“Did you eat anything today?”
“Breakfast and a couple of sandwiches of questionable provenance from the vending machine at work.”
“If you pass out while driving, I’m going to be pissed.”
“If I do, just elbow me or something. I’m sure I’ll wake up.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Ash, climbing into his car. Bowers grumbled something but then followed suit. They drove the remaining forty-five minutes to Sellersburg in silence, the lights on top of their car and the occasional blast from its siren clearing the path ahead of them.
The state police post was just a mile or two off the interstate and faced a Mexican restaurant. Ash parked at the end of a long line of police cars and stepped out, his feet sinking in the gravel lot. He could hear music and see kids playing volleyball on the front lot of the Baptist church up the street. Ash adjusted his sport coat and clipped his badge to his belt.
“Let’s get this over with. I want Hines rotting in a cell as soon as possible.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Bowers, already walking toward the building. The post’s interior walls had been painted an off-white that had dulled over the years, while a thin navy blue carpet muffled his footsteps. The air held the fetid odor of mildew. Aside from arrestees, few members of the public went into the post, so it lacked an area for the reception of guests. Instead, a dozen uniformed officers milled about an open room crammed with desks, talking to each other in subdued voices. Bowers cleared his throat, getting the attention of the nearest officer, a young man with straight black hair. He directed them to the office of the lieutenant in charge of the post.
The next hour went quickly with the state police doing most of the work. The lieutenant colonel Bowers had talked to earlier came in and read through Susan’s warrant while the post lieutenant briefed the officers who would be involved in the raid on tactics and locations. Since Ash and Bowers were from Indianapolis and since their department’s insurance broker would be less than pleased if they became involved in a raid almost a hundred miles outside their jurisdiction, they’d stay well away from the house and watch as everyone else worked.
Consequently, Ash tuned out the tactical briefing and focused on the men and women in the room. Every officer there knew the consequences of screwing up. Somebody—a partner, a victim, a neighbor minding his own business—might not make it through the night. As their lieutenant spoke, the seriousness of the situation descended upon them and choked away any traces of merriment.
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br /> After the briefing, Ash called Hannah to tell her what was going on. She wished him luck and suggested that he try to avoid being shot if at all possible. He told her he would and that he loved her before hanging up. At the appointed time, Ash, along with another Islamic officer, had evening prayer in an empty conference room. That stilled his mind and allowed him to think clearly. He and Bowers wouldn’t be anywhere near the actual raid, but a nervous pit wore at his gut nonetheless. The men and women assigned to that station had gone through a state-certified police academy, but Ash didn’t know them. He didn’t know what they could do, how experienced they were, what sort of temperaments they had. Sending strangers after a man who had already killed at least three people felt wrong.
At a quarter after eleven, the team got together for final assignments before heading out. Ash and Bowers left at the tail end of a six-vehicle convoy. They took the interstate at first, but then simultaneously exited at a small, two-gas-station town. Their target house lay ten miles distant, but the only road to it writhed through fields, cow pastures, and woods. It’d be a slow trek.
Ash had followed that route on his computer, but actually driving it made him feel as if he were on a roller coaster. Maybe his small dinner was good for something after all. Aside from sodium safety lamps on barns and farmhouses, the moon alone, peeking through wisps of clouds, lit the night. He cracked open his window. The scent of damp earth with an undertone of rot and manure filled the car. The temperature had dropped probably twenty degrees from the time they left Indianapolis, making the air feel comfortable on his skin. Had he been at home, it would have been a great night to sleep outside on his hammock.
“These guys sure know how to pick them,” said Bowers, staring as they passed the charred remnants of what had been a single-story home. Weeds covered the clapboard to the windows, while scorch marks rose to the remains of the collapsed roof. Neat rows of cars lined the front lawn. In the city, scavengers would have picked the area clean of metal within a night. In the country, though, nature had been allowed to take its revenge upon the blight, slowly rotting it into dust.
“Remote, low-population density, low law enforcement presence. It’s a good spot for a meth lab. And out here, they’re only going to blow themselves up if something goes wrong. Downright considerate of them if you ask me.”
“Except us,” said Bowers. “If something goes wrong, they blow us up, too.”
“There is that,” said Ash. He paused for effect. “At least we’d go out with a bang.”
Bowers didn’t crack a smile. “How long have you been sitting on that line?”
Ash shrugged. “Longer than I’d like to admit.”
Bowers grunted, plunging the vehicle into silence again.
They drove for twenty more minutes before Ash started recognizing landmarks. Cecil lay in the south-central portion of Hancock County and had so few residents that it barely registered as a dot on the GPS in his cruiser. A vehicle at the head of the convoy turned onto a smaller side road about a mile outside of town. Those officers would park at an intersection west of their target farm in case someone managed to escape in a vehicle. Bowers and Ash would do the same thing on the east side of the farm. If the other officers did their jobs well, neither would be needed.
He slowed to a stop at the town’s only four-way intersection and hung a left, almost immediately passing a ramshackle bungalow with black shutters and a wheelchair ramp leading to the front door. A pair of confederate flags waved in a light breeze on poles in the front yard. Ash had seen pictures of the area online, but being there in person felt almost surreal.
“How far out is this place?” asked Bowers.
“Not too much farther.”
Ash followed the cruiser in front of him for another mile or two, passing Doug and Loretta Brown’s ranch home and farm, before finding a small inlet between a thicket of woods and a cornfield. Doug—or whichever local farmer owned it—probably used it as a path to get his tractor to and from the worksite. While the state police officers pushed on, Ash backed his car into the inlet and then drove forward, leaving his vehicle perpendicular to the road and blocking access from either direction.
As soon as Ash put his car into park, Bowers checked the two-way radio he had been given at the state police post in Sellersburg and got out of the car. Ash followed suit and leaned against his door, facing the direction of their targeted farm. Trees followed the asphalt around a curve, blocking his view of the farm. Not that he would have had much chance to see anything two miles up a winding road.
“They tell you when they planned to hit the house?” asked Ash.
Bowers held up his radio. “No, but somebody’s supposed to call.”
Ash nodded and settled in. A dog barked somewhere distant, and if the wind blew right, he thought he could hear car engines, presumably from the state police officers. The constant white noise of the creek up ahead covered everything else.
“I think I’ve got a candy bar in the car if you want half,” he said. Bowers declined, so Ash sat down on the driver’s seat and leaned over so he could root through his glove box. Eight months ago, he wouldn’t have done that with another officer within sight because eight months ago, he had carried a pint of bourbon inside, beneath paperwork. Now it held chocolate-covered granola bars that had melted and hardened dozens of times over, turning each into a sticky, gummy mess. They still tasted good, so Ash didn’t mind. He tore a package open and then perked his ears up as he heard something rumble distantly.
“Are they moving?” he asked, sticking his head out of the car.
Bowers leaned forward and held his hand to his forehead as if he were trying to blot out the sun. “They didn’t say anything, but it sounds like it.”
Ash squeezed the bottom of the candy bar’s packaging, forcing enough of the granola up that he could have a mouthful. He and Bowers turned at the same time, watching a pair of bright headlights filter through rows of corn.
“Probably just a farmer coming home,” said Bowers. “Get a flashlight. We’ll have to turn him around.”
Ash had already started toward his trunk when the headlights extinguished. Judging by the sound, though, the truck kept moving. The noise from the engine decreased, and then Ash heard brakes squeal. The truck’s engine then spooled up again after that, rumbling the ground even a couple hundred yards away.
“I’m not from the country, so is there any reason why a farmer would turn his lights off at night aside from an attempt to hide?” asked Ash.
“I don’t know,” said Bowers, picking up his radio. “You got a shotgun in your trunk?” Ash nodded. “Get it. We’re going for a walk.”
While Bowers radioed the state police, Ash walked to his trunk and grabbed the weapon and a box of shells before joining Bowers by the front of the vehicle.
“What’d they say?” asked Ash.
“Warned us not to shoot any cows. They take that seriously around here.”
“They’re not going to send anybody?”
Bowers shook his head. “The lieutenant said farmers around here work at night sometimes so they don’t stress their livestock during the heat of the day.”
“How far out are our boys?”
“Five minutes on these roads.”
Ash nodded and took a breath. “Let’s hope it’s just a farmer.”
Bowers nodded before starting to walk down the road. Ash followed a few steps behind, cradling his firearm. Both men wore Windbreakers with the word POLICE splashed across the back in bright yellow letters, so they should be identifiable as law enforcement officers from a distance. Ash didn’t know if that would make the local farmers more or less likely to shoot them. The Browns’ farm lay maybe two hundred yards up the road, but the trees cast a moat of blackness around it so thick Ash could barely see through it. He took a breath and stepped off the road and onto the grass, muffling his footsteps. It had just been a truck, but it left a bad feeling in his gut.
A line of evergreen trees with bough
s that ran from the tree’s crown to the ground separated the Browns’ farm from the road, blocking Ash’s view inside. He could hear talking, though, and the sound of feet crunching on gravel. Someone had turned the truck’s engine off. Bowers, crouched low, walked toward the evergreen trees and then pushed between two of them, quickly becoming enmeshed in the gray-green branches. Ash did likewise. The tree’s foliage stopped at the tips of its branches, creating a sort of cocoon inside of which they could comfortably peer at the Browns’ farm unseen. It smelled sticky, like sap.
A light atop the Browns’ barn illuminated a concrete parking pad. Ash squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. The noise that drew their attention originally had come from a yellow rental truck that had backed up the steep driveway. Its nose pointed toward the exit, while its rear pointed toward a pair of open barn doors. There must have been fifteen people in the space of a couple of parking spots. Young women in sweatpants and loose tops lined up behind the truck while four men ambled about, casting sideways glances at their surroundings. One leaned against the side of the truck and smoked a cigarette maybe thirty feet from them. Like the last time Ash had seen him, he wore a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, this time in red.
It was one of the men who had dumped him at the barn near Lafayette. Before consciously willing his legs to move, Ash knelt and crooked his left leg in front of him, creating a steady platform on which he could aim. He raised the shotgun to his shoulder, felt one bone click against another, felt the slight give of the trigger. Thirty feet away, there’d be nothing left of his target but a stain on the side of a moving van. Something within him, a voice out of some dark crevice of his soul, screamed at him to do it. He swallowed that desire back and licked his lips, his hands starting to feel the weight of the weapon.
“That’s one of the guys who took me to Rebecca’s body,” whispered Ash. “We got a warrant for the wrong farm.”
Bowers glanced at him and then nodded before taking a couple of steps back. Ash heard him whisper into the radio. Red Shirt took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the truck’s cabin. Ash couldn’t see a firearm on him, but he assumed he had something within reach. If they had to start shooting, he’d be the first target. With him down, Ash and Bowers could use the truck as concealment from the rest.