by Mark Tufo
“You mean whether or not to sue you for false arrest?” He grinned at her menacingly. Eckerson started to advance on him, but she held him with her hand.
“You weren’t under arrest. Were you read your Miranda Rights?”
Roger’s face fell as he thought back. “No…”
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. So, we’re back to where you have a decision to make.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“We can take you in as a material witness and question you for as long as we need to. In which case we can impound your truck and have it towed, but gosh…those towing and impound fees can get expensive.”
“Like hell!” Roger yelled.
Denise nodded. “Then I guess maybe you can follow us to the station and park your truck outside while we question you.”
Roger stared at her for a long moment then turned and flashed his handcuffs at her. “I can’t drive with these on.”
“You’re right, you can’t. Deputy Foo? Would you be so kind?” She stood and watched Roger carefully while Jon removed the handcuffs. “You do realize that if you try to make a break for it or don’t follow us, then we’ll be forced to—”
“I know, I know,” Roger interrupted. “We was going there anyway.”
He rubbed his wrists as he glared at her. “Like a dumbass, I stopped here hoping these knuckle dragging asswipes would just take our statements and we wouldn’t have to waste the gas.”
“Lucky for you, I was on duty tonight.”
“Lucky for you…I was on duty tonight,” he mumbled, mocking her.
Denise walked around the truck and helped Casper up. He was so upset that he could barely walk as she led him to her cruiser. She opened the rear door and helped him in the back. Once he was in and buckled she turned back to Eckerson. “I know you guys are tied up with the murder cases, but just in case this one ends up going south on me, do you mind following us in and maybe helping me take statements?”
Jeff shrugged. “We had already started the paperwork on this. What’s a couple more hours?”
“Thanks.” She patted his arm.
“I think I’m going to keep patrolling and keeping the good citizens of the county safe, if it’s all the same to you,” Jon said.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re going to park under an abandoned bridge and sleep,” Jeff shot back.
Jon nodded. “If I can find one.”
*****
Chris Anthony moaned as he tried to move, his body fighting the painful memories of the attack. His muddied mind knew that he had to get to Bobby’s house, he was bleeding out…time was of the essence, but he felt so heavy. He was so tired. But that little voice in the back of his head kept screaming at him to move! Keep breathing and MOVE!
He mustered his energy and tried to move, but it took so much effort, then the fatigue overtook him and he just wanted to sleep. Sleep sounded so much better, so much easier. Just let the darkness take over and rest.
MOVE!
He jerked awake and stifled a shout as his eyes fought to focus in the low light. He glanced around, his mind trying to take in his surroundings. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew it was enclosed, no windows, no natural light. A kerosene lantern burned in the corner, its wick set low to act as a nightlight.
He turned his head to look behind him and felt a sharp pain in his back. He slowly moved back and felt the bandages around his middle. Feeling with his hand, he noted the gauze wrap and relaxed. If he wasn’t at Bobby’s, then he at least made it somewhere that somebody took pity on him and patched him up.
He ran his hand down along the back of his meaty thighs and felt the dressings. His legs were killing him, throbbing with each beat of his heart. He moved his arm to settle himself back onto the gurney he lay on and noticed the IV drip. He slowly lay back down and tried to read the bag: Sodium chloride solution. He tried not to turn his head as he looked about the room. There were steel storage lockers along the walls and a makeshift operating theater. With a sigh he relaxed a little and let himself rest.
“I thought I heard you moving around in here,” a baritone voice stated.
Chris didn’t have to react. He knew that voice and he relaxed even further. “Hey, Bobby,” he called, his throat feeling dry. “Can I get a drink of water?”
“Sure.” Chris still couldn’t see him. He moved from behind his head and poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the table beside the gurney. “I gave you morphine earlier so you’d sit still while I sewed on you. Probably gave you a real good case of cotton mouth.”
Chris sipped at the water and tried his best to wash the chemical taste from his throat. “Am I gonna live?” he asked, half-jokingly.
“I think so,” Bobby said, his voice more serious than Chris would have liked. “Now, anyway.”
“How bad was it?”
“It wasn’t good. Somebody used a fucking Ka-Bar on you like you were a pincushion.” Bobby rolled a chair up alongside the gurney. “Any idea who jumped you?”
“Oh yeah.” The tone of hatred tinting his voice. “He’ll get his.”
“Well, you might want to let yourself heal a little before you go back out after the SOB. You’re not exactly battle ready, if you know what I mean.”
Chris sat back and breathed deep, trying to let his mind relax. When he closed his eyes, he saw odd shapes and geometric patterns. The drugs in his system were definitely playing with his mind and he was feeling nauseous. “I think I’m gonna hurl.”
“There’s a bucket beside you.”
Chris cracked an eye and leaned to the side. A five gallon plastic bucket with bloody swatches of gauze and cotton balls littered the bottom. He nodded and sat back.
“I have some shit that will help with that. Sit still a bit.” Bobby rolled his chair over to a toolbox and pulled out a syringe. He squeezed a gel out on his finger and came rolling back to his side. He picked up Chris’ wrist and rubbed the gel across the soft side of his wrist and forearm. “Give that a little bit and you should be feeling better.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“So what the fuck, man? How’d you end up like this? I had to dump two units of blood into you and two saline IVs.”
Chris sighed and rolled his neck. “I fucked up, Bobby. Plain and simple. I went to off this little meth head and he gave me the slip. I dove under his bed to pull him out and the little shit had an exit hole under there that I didn’t know about. He came back in the front of this piss hole shack and jumped me while I was pinned under the bed.” Chris cracked open his eye and saw Bobby wasn’t sure whether or not to buy his story. “The little shit jumped on my legs and went to town. Before I could get out, he got me in the back.”
Bobby shook his head. “A tweaker did this to you? Fuck, man, you’re losing your edge.”
“Tell me about it.” Chris sighed again. “I’m so mad I could just scream.”
“Well don’t. It won’t do you any good.” Bobby stood up and began putting his medical kit away. “You need some down time to heal, and if this asshat is as stupid as you make him out to be, he ain’t going anywhere.” Bobby zipped the medical kit and set it back in the top drawer of his tool box. He pushed the drawer shut and turned to face Chris, leaning against the rollaway toolbox. “Besides, once you’re back on your feet, you won’t have to go after him alone. You’ll have Bobby Bridger to cover your six.”
*****
Colonel Alexander Murphey sat alone at home, enough Long Island iced tea pumping through his system that he had trouble reading the reports piled in front of him. In frustration he threw the file on the table and sat back in his chair.
“Utter bullshit,” he mumbled.
He couldn’t make out all the technical jargon of the reports, but the police reports were easy enough to follow. They didn’t make sense, what with all the witness statements of men made of mist and fog, but he caught the gist. The witnesses were trying to blame the murders on a specter or a ghost or some sort of fairy tale mumb
o jumbo.
He stood up to refresh his drink and found himself to be more than just a little wobbly. He staggered toward the kitchen and pulled the premixed bottle of Long Island Tea from the refrigerator. Refilling his glass and dropping a few more pieces of ice into the tumbler was more difficult than he would have liked. He smiled to himself and did his best to carry the tall glass back to his study.
He sat down in his favorite leather chair behind his desk and leaned back. Sipping the drink he rubbed at his eyes. He knew he should be calling it a night rather than staying up and going over the files, but he wanted to rub the M.E.’s face in it when he handed the files back. He wanted to be able to look the bastard in the face and say that he understood everything he read.
He closed his eyes and thought back to some of the cases. Could it be possible that the different witnesses were working together, committing the murders separately but using the same story to throw off the investigators? He bounced the idea around in his mind and tried to imagine how a handful of vengeful females could pull off such a feat without leaving any kind of physical evidence. Was it possible? Or was it more likely that the investigators were out of their league and simply missed it?
“Ha!” He actually laughed out loud to himself as the thought crossed his mind. He’d have to bring that idea to the District Attorney in the morning. That is, if he could remember it…he didn’t want to forget this theory just because he was inebriated.
Colonel Murphey sat up and opened his laptop. His eyes couldn’t quite focus as he looked at the keyboard in front of him. He chuckled to himself as he moved the cursor on the screen and double-clicked on his email. He began typing out a poorly worded email to the DA just in case he couldn’t remember his new theory in the morning. He felt it worthy to risk looking the drunken fool rather than forgetting any of it.
Just as Murphey finished typing up his message and was about to hit the ‘send’ button, he heard a noise in the other room. He sat very still, listening intently. He knew he was alone. He knew he had locked all the doors and windows, he kept them that way for a reason. His security system stayed armed, so nobody could have gotten past it. He strained his ears, listening, sure that he had heard something.
Rising slowly from his chair, he crept to the door of his small study and peeked out to the hallway. Empty.
Murphey stepped into the hallway and peered toward the parlor. “Is somebody in there?”
Waiting for a reply that he hoped wouldn’t come, he looked around him for a weapon. Anything, really. He saw nothing that he might be able to use. He took a tentative step toward the room and placed a hand against the wall to help him maintain his balance.
“Who’s there?” he called louder.
No reply came as he inched closer to the room. He approached a small table where he often dropped the daily mail. His hand slid down to the small drawer and he shakily withdrew a letter opener. While it might not have a sharpened edge, it did come to a point and might be usable as a stabbing weapon. He held it tighter in his hand as he slowly made his way toward the small parlor. “I’m armed!” he yelled now, hoping an intruder might simply run off, fearing an altercation more than the prospect of possibly doing him harm.
He inhaled deeply and tried to steel his resolve. Letting his breath out slowly, he stepped into the parlor and held the letter opener out in front of him. He looked from one corner of the room to the other and found it empty. A vase that was once a family heirloom lay shattered on the floor beside the fireplace, but no sign of how it got there was to be seen. He stepped gingerly around the broken porcelain, his eyes darting about for anything that might have caused the urn to have fallen. Colonel Murphey sidestepped to the window and double checked that it was still locked. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it still fastened.
Murphey couldn’t control his hands anymore, the shaking becoming almost unbearable. “This is crazy,” he muttered under his breath. “Probably a rat or something.” He turned and headed back to the doorway leading to the hall. “I’ll call an exterminator tomorrow.”
Just as he stepped into the hallway a hand grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him violently against the opposite wall of the hallway. His hip and head both bounced against the hardwood trim that lined the hallway walls and he stumbled, tripping over his own drunken feet.
As Murphey fell to the hardwood floor, a foot came up and caught him in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from him and causing the letter opener to fly from his grip and slide down the finely polished floor. He rolled to his back and was barely able to open his eyes as his body fought to suck in air. He could just make out the darkened figure standing over him, dressed entirely in black. He rolled over to his knees and continued to forcefully suck in air while trying desperately to crawl away from his attacker.
“Where do you think you’re going, Murphey?” a soft voice called to him. He didn’t dare turn around to address his attacker, fear wracking his oversized frame. “We’re just getting started.”
Alex Murphey was almost certain he knew that voice. He felt, in the back of his mind, that he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t place it. It didn’t matter right at the moment as he struggled to suck air back into his body. He continued to force himself to crawl away and he almost pissed himself when he felt the slender legs step on either side of his waist and the attacker sit down on his back, wrapping their own legs around his soft middle, then begin to squeeze. He tried to sit up, but arms went around his neck and his air supply was cut off again.
“We’re going to have a quick chat, you and I, okay?” a feminine voice rasped in his ear as she pulled back on his neck.
Murphey stiffened but held his hands out to the side, his fingers splayed to show he had surrendered. She leaned in close to his ear once more and Murphey could feel the material of the ski mask over her face as it brushed the side of his neck.
“You’re going to drop your interest in the murders, got it?” she whispered, increasing the squeeze on her choke hold.
Murphey’s eyes bulged in his head, but he managed a nod. His attacker let off the choke long enough for him to fill his lungs with cool air then she clamped down again. “If you don’t, I’ll come back and we’ll visit again. Except next time, I may visit you in your sleep. And you’ll never see me coming.”
Murphey nodded and she let go of the choke hold, letting him drop to the floor, coughing and choking on the great gulps of air that he sucked down. He rolled to his back once more and looked up at the tiny woman standing over him.
“W-what difference does it make to you?” he choked out, one hand rubbing across his tender throat.
His attacker seemed to ponder the question a moment and then cocked her head to the side, “You couldn’t possibly understand what drives someone like me,” she said softly.
Slowly, she reached up and pulled the sunglasses from her face. Murphey gasped as he stared at two glowing red orbs in the ski mask. He tried not to stare at the flaming red eyes, for they burned so brightly that it hurt to look. The only words that came to his mind were ‘hellfire’.
26
Zimmer pulled the cruiser into his designated parking space and shut off the ignition. He turned to Sheryn and shook his head. “I’m really not looking forward to spending the evening with this guy. This has the potential of backfiring on us.”
“I don’t see how. As long as we watch what we say around him and just have him go through the mug books, we should be okay. We just need to convince him that the threat is real.”
Light flashed in Justin’s face as Jerrod Miller pulled into the parking lot and his headlights reflected through the rear window of the cruiser. Justin turned and watched the Lincoln Navigator pull around and park in an opposite visitor’s space.
“Time to go to work.”
“Just be professional,” Sheryn coached. “He may be a son of a bitch, but if he wants to stay alive, we can figure out a way to get the message across to him.” She stepped from the cruiser
and shut the door. “We just have to be coy about how we go about it.”
Justin nodded and opened the door to the sheriff’s office for her. He stood holding the door for Miller as he crossed the parking lot. “Mr. Miller.” Justin nodded as the man entered.
Sheryn went in and cleared out an interrogation room for the three of them. Brenda stared slack jawed as Jerrod Miller walked through the station and followed Justin through the work stations and entered the room voluntarily.
Zimmer came back and stuck his head into the dispatch center. “Brenda, we’re going to be tied up with Mr. Miller for a while. Don’t let anybody bother us unless it’s important, okay?”
“Sure, Justin.” She gave him a suspicious look. “What’s going on?”
Justin sighed and leaned against the doorpost. “We figured out that Miller may well be one of the next targets.” Brenda’s eyes widened with his admission, so he continued. “The kid that was killed out at the Johnson place? That was Miller’s son, according to the adoption records.”
“Holy smokes,” she muttered under her breath. “Are you sure?”
“I suppose the mother could have lied, but…why?” he shrugged. “We’re going to see if we can find out for sure.”
Brenda glanced over his shoulder towards the interrogation room. “I can’t believe he came in on his own.”
Justin glanced back as well. “Yeah, well…Sgt. Sanders may have bent the facts a little to get him here.”
Brenda shook her head at him and turned back to her work station. “Don’t let Scott find out. You know how he is about threatened lawsuits.”
Justin grunted as he pushed off the doorframe and went to the coffee mess to pour a cup before stepping into the lion’s den.
*****
Jon Foo drove around his district, his mind in another place. He kept seeing Ginger’s face and the hurt that he had inflicted without meaning to. He sighed to himself and pulled the SUV over at one of Eckerson’s favorite out of town spots to watch for speeders. Glancing at his watch, he knew it was too late for most motorists to be out, but he wasn’t here to catch absent minded drivers. He parked the truck to allow himself to think.