by Chris Stout
“Aunt Fran, this is Miranda Leider. She works with me at the police department. She’s also a student at Sparta College, going for a master's degree in criminology. Hopes to be a detective. And she’s been a brunette as long as I’ve known her.”
Aunt Fran frowned. “But she came to see me yesterday. We talked about you, even. She said her name was Becky.”
Miranda came over and patted her hand apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Maybe it was my long lost twin.” She tried to smile, but instantly thought about her dead brother. Sam caught the shadow that passed over her face. He gave her a look of concern, but at least the elderly woman laughed.
“You must be right, dear. My memory’s not what it used to be, you know.”
Miranda managed a faint smile.
Sam turned back to his aunt. “Do you remember anything else about this stranger that came to visit you?”
“Well, no. She just looked a lot like – I’m sorry, what was your name, dear?”
“Miranda.”
“Yes. She looked very much like Miranda here. Except with blonde hair. And it was much shorter than yours.”
“Well,” Sam replied with a grin, “I doubt a day is enough time for Miranda to grow out her hair this long. But I’ll ask around about this person. She was nice to you?”
“Oh yes. Very sweet. I think she has a thing for you. She wanted to know all about you.”
Miranda and Sam exchanged glances. “That’s very interesting. Did she leave a number or address, any way I can get hold of her?” He smiled conspiratorially. “Maybe she’d like to go out to dinner sometime.”
She already did, Miranda thought.
Aunt Fran swatted her nephew on the arm. “Sam Connor! Shame on you! You’re here with a very lovely young lady. How dare you suggest romancing another woman, with her right in front of you?”
Miranda tried to stifle a laugh. She was in dangerous territory, but she supposed that it was good to be able to see the humor in it all.
Sam was duly chastised, and apologized. Aunt Fran made a show of not listening to him, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You should come and see an old woman more often,” she said after they had talked a while. “And, you young lady, don’t be a stranger. Whoever you are.” She smiled and gave Miranda a wink.
Miranda and Sam took their leave. Out in the hall, he said, “I wonder if she’s just having one of her spells, or if there’s something to all that nonsense.”
Miranda shrugged. “Maybe the receptionist could tell you something. Was she on duty last night?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact she was. Let’s stop by her desk on the way out.”
Now why did I tell him that?
#
The receptionist, of course, remembered the woman with the blonde hair very clearly. “Yes, she said something about wanting to drive Mrs. Connor to church on Sundays. Said she was a deacon or something like that. It was funny, because she went to the wrong room first. And of course Mister Connor – God rest his soul – passed on a few days ago.”
This had Sam worried. He took down a description of the mysterious woman, thanked the receptionist, and then left the retirement community with Miranda. In the car he said, “Whoever was there last night was bogus.”
“How can you tell?”
“Aunt Fran’s Catholic. There’s only one deacon at her Church, John Hume.”
“Well, who do you think this person is then?”
Sam shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t imagine why anyone would lie to get in to see an old lady with Alzheimer’s.”
“Maybe a scam artist?”
“Maybe. I think I’ll call the manager of the facility, tell them not to let anyone in without ID and to notify me about anyone who tries to visit her.”
Sam dropped Miranda off at the station. “Let’s call it a night. We’re gonna need the rest. Tomorrow’s going to be hell, but we’ll have a chance to go over the evidence we’ve found and see if we can make heads or tails of this whole mess.”
Miranda gave him a quick hug before going to her car. “Thank you for letting me meet your aunt. She’s very sweet.”
“I’m glad you like her. She sure seemed to like you to.” Miranda smiled, but her eyes were full of sadness. She didn’t say anything more, and got into her car to drive home.
Chapter 18
The massacre at The Lodge made headline news across the state. Local papers also questioned whether the attack on Gutierrez was tied into the crime. No mention, however, was made about the stockpile of weapons found or the suspicion of militant activities. Those were pieces of the puzzle that the Police and Sheriff’s Departments were still working on, and they didn’t want to tip too much of their hand to any other militia members out there.
Sam sat in his office with a legal pad and a pen. He scribbled and doodled, trying to clear his tired and aching mind. In the center of a clean piece of paper, he wrote the name “Damon Shearer” with a circle around it. In the top right corner he wrote “Wainwright,” circled it, and connected it with Damon’s circle. “Beaumont” went on the top left corner, connected to the previous two names. Underneath went “Militia” and lines drawn to it, with a circle on Beaumont’s line. That was a connection Sam wanted to work on. He knew Beaumont and the Chief had known each other well. And Beaumont was certainly in a position to provide weapons and ammunition for the militia. By why would Damon want to kill him? And everyone else, for that matter?
At the bottom of the page, Sam wrote the name “Justin Leider,” Miranda’s dead brother. Was his murder part of all the bloodshed? He too, was connected to Damon, through Beaumont and as one of the suspect’s friends. Next to Justin’s name went “Miranda,” with a huge question mark. But she was one of the good guys, right? Bad enough that her brother had shot himself. But Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he’d had since his visit to his aunt the night before. She had seemed so certain, except for the hair color. And the receptionist confirmed her story. And anyone could buy a wig….
Sam shook the thought out of his mind when he heard Miranda come into the office. He tossed the pad into a desk drawer and stood to greet her. “Sleep well?” he asked.
“Not really. How many people died last night?”
Sam smirked at her wan attempt at gallows humor. “No one. Everyone must have already bumped everyone else off.”
Miranda sat down. “So where are we now?”
Sam pulled out a fresh legal pad. “Murder number one. Henry Beaumont. Owns the local gun store. He’s shot in the leg, chest and head. Store gets ransacked, several handguns and a couple of Class III weapons are missing.” He tore the page off and set it aside. “Next. A Sparta police officer on patrol at Beaumont’s house is assaulted, and remains in critical condition. He’s shot twice with a .357 Magnum revolver.” Sam tore the second sheet, and set it beside the first.
“Now the big one,” he continued. “Four bodies, including the Chief of Police, found shot to death at a remote hunting cabin. One body’s found with a 9mm semi-automatic, there’s a .45 and a 9mm found inside. The .45 belonged to the Chief, and the other weapon presumably belonged to the second body. Outside, the fourth body has a .357, with six empty cases in the cylinder. Then there’s the basement.” He tore off the third sheet of paper. “Down there’s a shitload of surplus military-style rifles, handguns and ammunition. And paraphernalia indicating that some type of right-wing supremacist group has met there.” Sam tore the fourth sheet off, laid it beside the others, and sighed.
Miranda rose from her chair and came around to Sam’s side of the desk so she could look at his scribblings. “And then there’s my brother. Except he died weeks ago. But he’s connected to at least some of these people. So how do we tie all this together?”
“We find Damon Shearer. Easier said than done.”
“What about this Bill Banks character?” Miranda asked. “The one found with the .357? Both Beaumont and Hector were shot with a weapon of that caliber. What if he
killed Damon too and we just haven’t found the body?”
Sam nodded. “I’ve wondered about that, too. I have a suspicion that his bullets are going to match the ones we found in Hector. But not Beaumont’s. Just a hunch, but I think I can explain.”
“Okay.” Miranda’s face betrayed her skepticism. “Shoot.”
“Let’s assume the Chief is involved neck-deep in this militia. The guns were found, after all, in the basement of his lodge. That militia is going to need supplies. And Beaumont happens to be a gun dealer, so they can get all sorts of goodies from him. Now, I found automatic weapons hidden in Beaumont’s shed. Suppose Damon wanted those for himself, for whatever reason. He kills Henry and steals his keys, intending to go get the weapons. He may even have been there and picked up a few, and just couldn’t take everything at once.”
“Makes sense.”
“Now, suppose these weapons were meant for the militia?”
Miranda nodded. “It would be reasonable to assume, then, that the Chief knew Beaumont had them. Chief wants to make sure he gets them and sends a couple of his boys out to find them. Hector comes along and gets shot, because maybe he caught them there.”
“Right on,” Sam said. “Then everybody gathers at the lodge, because shooting a cop is serious shit, and they’re gonna need Wainwright’s help in pulling their asses out of the fire. Damon comes by, because he can’t get into Beaumont’s place anymore, and he takes them out. There had to be a fifth shooter, because we haven’t found the weapon lying around that killed those four men. And I bet that weapon was a stolen MAC, taken from Beaumont’s store by our friend Damon.”
“But why?” Miranda asked. “Why torture the Chief, for instance. Or Beaumont, for that matter. I can’t think of any other reason to shoot somebody in the knee other than to cause him pain.”
Sam shrugged. “Information, I guess. He wanted to know where these military weapons were. Beaumont wouldn’t say, so he got the third degree. Same with the Chief. Maybe he didn’t get the guns and wanted to know where they were.”
“And my brother? He died well before any of these weapons were found. But it was once his body was found that everybody else started dropping off.”
Sam sighed. He rummaged through his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, which he passed over to Miranda. “This is a police sketch from West Virginia. The subject in it allegedly burned down a church there.”
Miranda looked at the picture. It bore a resemblance to her brother, and confirmed what Damon had told her when she questioned him by the stream. She kept her expression tight and looked back up at Sam.
“Whether your brother killed himself or had help along the way,” he continued, “it may have had something to do with that. Especially with these military weapons coming in, if he was involved with this militia they would have wanted to avoid any heat he might bring. It might also explain why everybody has started shooting now. The weapons are here, some of them are likely missing, and everyone is already jumping because of what might have happened with Justin.”
She nodded. It was perfectly plausible, which certainly worked in her favor. “Thank you for showing me this. That explains a lot.” Her voice was quiet, and she slid the sketch back over to Sam. “It’s hard to believe we don’t have any information on this militia, what they stand for, what they want to accomplish, how they want to accomplish it. I’m amazed there’s never been anything that has come to light on them.”
“You can cover up a lot when the Chief of Police is on your side,” Sam countered.
She chewed on her lip and conceded that point, then returned to the issue at hand. “So it looks like Damon is some sort of rogue operator.”
“That’s my guess. We have no clue about his background; maybe he’s got ties to another group that wants these weapons. Maybe he’s some left-wing militant on a crusade. Who knows. We won’t until we find him.”
“What kind of weapons do you think we’re talking about?”
“The Sheriff is being kind enough to run a trace on the rifles I found. They probably came from a National Guard or Reserve armory. They’re older models, but can fire automatically. There was plenty of room for more in that pit I found. Someone could have scored a major heist on one of the armories. So the guns are floating around without any papers. Beaumont has them because people are used to seeing him with military equipment, especially since he’s got a Class III license. He’d make a great fence between the militia and a supplier.”
“Why would the militia want them, then? Those AK’s we found are decent enough for their war games and survivalist bullshit. Why run the risk of being caught with stolen hardware?”
“You’ve got me there. Unless they had something planned and didn’t want the weapons traced to them. Most new firearms have spent bullets and casings sent to the FBI so they can be traced if they’re stolen or used in a crime. But military hardware that’s already stolen…” Sam left the thought hanging, allowing Miranda to draw her own conclusions.
“Sounds like bad news. Maybe Damon’s done us a favor.”
Sam laughed without a trace of humor. “Maybe. But anybody who kills that efficiently shouldn’t be running around the streets with that kind of arsenal.”
Miranda pondered that point. Sam was right. She was efficient. And merciless. Not totally without remorse, but still…. She would probably be labeled a sociopath. That didn’t set very well with her. After all, everyone she had killed had been involved with hurting or killing her brother. Theoretically the state would have done the same thing. But she knew how plea bargains and such worked. All she had done was serve justice. Of course, that’s what they all say….
“What are you thinking about?”
“Hmm?” she responded, startled. “Oh. Nothing. Just trying to make some sense of this whole thing.”
“Me too. Don’t look so grim about it. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
“Like yours?”
Sam laughed. “I’ve earned every one of these.”
“I bet you have.” Miranda rose and moved behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and kneaded them gently.
“Hey, I think this violates our harassment policy,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“It feels good, though. Don’t stop, or I’ll have to report you.”
She smiled down at him.
Chapter 19
Jesse McClintock and Tim Butcher sat drinking beer in Eldon Marshall’s trailer home. Their host paced back and forth in the narrow room, smoking furiously on a cigarette. “Do either of you have any idea what the fuck happened?” he asked in a growl.
The seated men shook their heads morosely. The papers that morning had shocked the hell out of them. It was just beginning to sink in that Chief Wainwright’s decision to send them home had been arbitrary, and it could easily be them lying in the morgue as any of the others.
Jesse crumpled his beer can. “What do we do now?”
Tim answered with another question. “You think the Feds are onto us?”
Eldon shook his head. “Don’t know. Papers didn’t say nothing about our unit, just that the Chief and several local sportsmen were killed in a major gunfight the other night.”
“You think that kid Damon did it?” Jesse asked.
“Had to of. Who else besides us knew about that meeting?” Eldon replied.
Tim crumpled his can and rose to retrieve another one. “Well what the fuck did he do that for? Shit, I thought he was one of us. I can understand him poppin’ Henry Beaumont, ‘specially if that old fart was going to the Feds about us. But this shit just don’t make any sense!”
“Maybe Henry wasn’t gonna go to the Feds,” Jesse countered. “Maybe Damon’s been working for them all along. Some sort of commando or something.” Tim looked at him like he was crazy, but Eldon nodded thoughtfully.
“Could be. Jesse, you and your wife are the ones who put him up in that rental. You know anything about this boy that we don’t?”
&nb
sp; Jesse shook his head. “Nah, we just put him up ‘cause the Chief told us too. Wainwright said he was a hotshot from West Virginia, oughta help us out real good. You know all that, just like he said at that meeting way back last fall. We gotta help bring this kid up and all that shit. Keep him away from the law in West Virginia. He and Justin Leider seemed to hit it off real good, but then Justin fucked up that job, and we all know what happened to him. Maybe it’s some sort of revenge thing, you know?”
Tim shook his head. “Nah, I was there. Damon’s the one that handed Justin the gun. I think he was more pissed than any of us was. After all, West Virginia ain’t our turf. That was Damon’s job. Chief just leant out some help is all.”
“Do we know what went on over there?” Eldon asked.
Jesse nodded. “They torched some nigger church, is what I heard. Weren’t no one supposed to be there, just making a statement is all. But I guess the pastor and his secretary were staying late, and got a call out. They got burned real bad, from what I hear. Don’t see how it matters none, though. They’re already black.”
The three men laughed for a moment, but the heaviness returned and enveloped them again. Eldon sat down and brooded. “Okay, the way I see things is this.” He lit up another cigarette. “Sooner or later the Feds are gonna come knocking at our doors. I’m sure there’s papers or a rolodex or something in the Chief’s possession that has our names on it, and folks are gonna start asking questions.”
“But we ain’t done nothing yet,” Jesse protested.
“Right. And they can’t prove that we ever was gonna, because there ain’t no illegal weapons that we have, unless you two have got some of your own. In which case I suggest you hide them somewhere far away. Now,” he cleared his throat, “I think we got to worry more about Damon than the Feds. So Jesse, you need to go in and talk to that Detective Connor fellow.” Jesse opened his mouth to protest again, but Eldon held up a hand. “You don’t have to talk about us at all. Just tell him what you know. Send him over to that house, send him over to West Virginia, wherever. Just to take the heat off of us a little.”