Head Shot

by Dan Ames

  "What's the fastest way to the marina from here, Paula?" he said, trying to keep his voice calm as he got into his car.

  Chapter 73

  Benjamin Soergel had always been an intellectual snob. He scoffed at the trivial pursuits common men rejoiced in and preferred a book by Francis Bacon or the striking beauty of a Mozart score. Although he kept his body rock hard through weight training and karate, he had never been one for the outdoors.

  Because of this he had never been on a boat smaller than a yacht, and he had no idea just how hard it was to sneak on board without rocking the vessel.

  With his gun drawn, he stepped from the pier onto the boat's rear deck and it moved. Not a great deal but it moved nonetheless. Suddenly, Soergel wondered just how important nabbing Ferkovich by himself really was.

  He knew Nancy would be arriving shortly and to be photographed with the suspect in hand was just the kind of publicity that came about once in a lifetime. In terms of high-profile cases, this one would be the granddaddy of them all.

  Slowly, he made his way forward. There was a large, rectangular lid covered in vinyl that he attempted to lift. It came loose and he found himself looking down into the engine compartment as the smell of gasoline rose quickly to his nostrils.

  He replaced the lid and moved toward the cabin below deck.

  His eyes looked over the captain's chair, with its gleaming chrome throttle and teak-covered instrumental panel. Not bad, he thought to himself, not bad at all.

  He now stood looking at a plastic door held together by snaps running down the middle. There was just no way to open this without making even more noise and Soergel turned to look at the street that ran next to the marina, secretly hoping Nancy would arrive in case things went badly. Not that she would be of much help but it would be comforting to know that someone was so close.

  Soergel felt a trickle of sweat slowly working its way down his forehead.

  He brushed it aside with his hand. His palms were clammy and his mouth tasted metallic.

  With a sense of complete detachment, he watched as his left hand reached up and unsnapped the top button. He winced at how loud the sound was but there was still no movement inside the cabin.

  His hand slid down and popped the next snap.

  Now he could get a glimpse inside. Soergel squinted his eyes and could just make out the shape of a bench running along the right-hand side of the room and a small table perched in front of it.

  From what he could see it looked immaculate as if no one had been there in quite some time.

  He cursed the fact that he didn't have a flashlight. It had been some years since he worked the streets but his overinflated ego would never let him admit that he was a little out of practice.

  The third and fourth buttons came off without a hitch and he quickly pushed his way through the plastic.

  He never saw it coming.

  Standing just inside the door, Joe Ferkovich brought the short wooden club used to smack salmon down on Soergel's head. The bone-crunching sound filled the small room. The cop staggered, tried to turn around, but Ferkovich unleashed a vicious blow to Soergel's temple, dropping him to the floor. The Glock fell from his hand and bounced harmlessly on the marine carpet.

  Chapter 74

  Mike awoke with a taste in his mouth that nearly made him gag. He reached for the Dixie cup of water on the table next to his hospital bed and winced in pain as various parts of his body screamed out in protest.

  But he got the water and drank it, feeling a little better for the effort.

  He still couldn’t believe what had happened. The chase, the fight, getting shot, and now being confined to a hospital bed.

  Mike had been in and out of consciousness so many times that he wasn’t sure what had been dreams and what had been reality. He knew that he was out of any immediate danger. Still, that didn’t bring him much comfort.

  It was just too much to believe.

  A low IQ northwoods hick who couldn’t distinguish between an actor on a television show and a real honest-to-goodness killer? Mike wanted to laugh but he knew it would hurt too much.

  He idly wondered if the real killer would ever hear about this case of mistaken identity and get a kick out of it.

  Mike ground his jaw.

  He wasn’t sure who he wanted to punch more; Hank Campbell or the actual killer.

  Well, he thought, maybe one day he’d be lucky enough to run into either one of them.

  If he ever did, he would gladly deliver payback.

  And then some.

  Chapter 75

  The Channel 6 news van rolled to a stop a block from the Rodgers Bay Marina.

  Nancy Bishop sat in silence, and looked for any sign of activity along the pier.

  She was met with silence.

  Bishop was uncertain as to how to proceed. She knew Soergel would get to the marina before she did, so he had to be here she reasoned.

  What if something went wrong?

  Ben was a tough man, she told herself. He could handle himself in any situation.

  At the same time, she was hesitant to rush onto the boat before the other cops arrived. She had made a career out of pushing the limits of how close her reporting came to interfering with the cops performing their duties. This would go beyond anything she'd done before.

  But it was just too good to pass up. She would be the only reporter to cover the capture of Ferkovich and it would be the crowning achievement in an already impressive career. But where was Soergel?

  There was only one way to find out.

  "Let's go," she said.

  The cameraman went around to the back of the van and retrieved his camera.

  They crossed the street and tentatively stepped onto the east end of the horseshoe-shaped pier.

  "We’re looking for Teacher's Pet," Bishop said. She had grabbed the flashlight from the van's glove compartment and was now checking the names of the boats.

  They made their way down the first dock and then circled the horseshoe before they found it.

  Her flashlight shone on the stern of the boat where the words Teacher's Pet were clear in the arc of light.

  "Do you really think this is a good idea, Nancy?" Crumbaker asked, looking around the deserted marina.

  She didn't respond and slowly brought the flashlight up over the stern, onto the rear deck. Transfixed, the two watched as the light revealed carpeting, vinyl upholstery and the small captain's chair. Next to the main console, a plastic door with snaps hung askew. As Nancy lowered her flashlight, she froze.

  Protruding through the bottom of the plastic were the soles of a man's shoes.

  "Shit," whispered Crumbaker from behind her and then he turned his camera on. The bright lights illuminated the entire interior of the boat.

  Nancy Bishop leaped aboard the Teacher's Pet and she tore the plastic apart not caring whether or not the killer was still aboard.

  "Ben!" she cried, dropping her flashlight and kneeling next to the dead man.

  The cameraman stood behind her capturing the scene.

  A distant siren reached their ears and they turned as Ray Mitchell pulled up to the pier.

  Nancy Bishop watched as Mitchell got out of his car and she idly wondered how much trouble she’d gotten herself into this time.

  Chapter 76

  As the morning sun rose steadily in the sky, the four occupants of the dark blue Chevy Suburban fell silent as they passed the area of Highway 2 that had been the site of so much activity the night before.

  In the back seat, Mike Sharpe saw his father look at him in the rearview mirror. Mike idly ran his fingers over his bandages. His head was still heavily wrapped and his nose was fortified by a strip of clear plastic that served to hold the mangled cartilage in place while it healed. There were dark circles under his eyes. Beneath his shirt, he wore a thick wrap designed to protect his ribs.

  Mike Sharpe caught his father's look.

  "Dad, keep your eyes on the road,” he said. Then, af
ter a second, he added, “there isn’t a big Bronco behind us, is there?”

  "Oh Michael, that's not funny," his mother said.

  "Laughter's the best medicine, Mom."

  "That's right," his Dad said. "Lighten up, Rosie."

  "Laurie, what are we going to do with these two?" Rose asked, turning in the seat to look at her son's girlfriend.

  "I don't think there's a whole lot we can do at this point, Mrs. Sharpe," Laurie answered.

  "Yeah, don't mess with perfection," Ron said, and received a punch on the arm from his wife in response.

  In stark contrast to the light mood in the Suburban, it had been a different reception when Ron and Rose Sharpe arrived at the hospital the night before. When they arrived there, Rose was in tears and Ron was in shock that his son had been shot.

  But after talking to the doctor as well as Chief Lenzen, they felt better. And knowing that as long as Mike stayed off his feet for a few days, things should be back to normal in no time.

  So first thing in the morning Mike had been released by the doctor, and after a quick stop at the hospital's pharmacy to pick up Mike's medications, the Sharpe clan with Laurie in tow all piled into the Suburban and set course for Lost Lake Lodge.

  The big truck ate up the miles and fifteen minutes later they drove down a narrow dirt road, passed several driveways, and then Mike saw the familiar wooden post railing fence marking the gate to Lost Lake Lodge.

  Beyond the cabin he saw the sun reflecting off the lake, and the forest of green surrounding the water instantly calmed him.

  Despite the circumstances, he thought, it was good to be back.

  Laurie helped him out of the Suburban while Ron and Rose unloaded the luggage from the truck. Mike took Laurie's arm and gave her a tour of the cabin and the property on which it sat.

  Mike took her through the cabin, pointing out the original section of the structure, along with the hand-hewn logs and natural stone fireplace.

  He purposely finished the tour on the verandah where he pointed out the "R & R, 1981" stone his father had placed there. An example of the kind of romanticism the beauty of the place brought out in its visitors.

  Seeing the stone proclaiming his parents' love for each other, he recalled the hasty search through his room at the hospital for the diamond ring. It had still been in the pocket of his pants.

  Now, on the verandah, he hoped that she was feeling the effects of Lost Lake Lodge.

  She turned to face him, and put her arms around his waist, careful not to brush his ribs.

  "It's beautiful, Mike. It's a beautiful place."

  "Do you really like it?"

  "I love it."

  "I do, too."

  Just then, Rose came through the patio door carrying a large tray with bagels, fresh fruit, and a pot of coffee.

  "Sit, you two."

  She poured a cup of coffee for Laurie and a small one for Mike, per his doctor's orders.

  "Okay, now, tell me how you two met. Spare no detail."

  Chapter 77

  It had been a long night for Ray. He'd been on the phone until four in the morning with Chief Trimble, who was shocked by news of Soergel's death and betrayal.

  Worst of all, though, no one had any idea where Ferkovich was.

  Ray still couldn't believe Soergel was dead. For all the bullshit Soergel had caused him, Ray was angered by his death. He was a cop, damn it.

  That Bishop woman had been a nut case, too. The paramedics had given her drugs to calm her down, then after one ambulance had taken Soergel away they called another one for her.

  Soergel had been the department leak. In retrospect, it made perfect sense. By leaking vital information to the press, Soergel had been able to manipulate the political climate of every big police investigation in which he was involved. Even better, he knew what was going to happen before it happened. That made it easy for him to put himself in the best position possible. Politically it was a great little scam.

  Ray pulled out his notebook. He was determined to catch Ferkovich sooner than later.

  He had been given use of a police chopper that was fueled and would begin flying over the area as soon as possible.

  The strategy was simple: find Soergel's car, which Ferkovich had most likely stolen for his getaway. Roadblocks had been set up all over the county, calculated by how far Ferkovich could get from the time of the murder to the time Ray arrived on the scene.

  Ray's cell phone rang.

  "Mitchell."

  The voice on the other end of the line was Detective Krahn. Ray had put him in charge of coordinating with Chief Lenzen the teams that were actively pursuing Ferkovich sightings in the area, as well as helping to organize the blanket coverage Ray had set up.

  He listened as Krahn filled him in on the lack of developments.

  Ray snapped his phone shut and walked out to the car. He placed the coffee in the cup holder and headed for the marina.

  It was the kind of beautiful fall day featured on calendars displaying photos from the Great Lakes. The leaves were in full color and along the lakeshore the effect was striking.

  The marina had calmed down considerably compared to the confusion of the early morning hours. Now several cop cars were stationed outside the small marina office and there was crime scene tape around the Teacher's Pet.

  Ray ducked under the police tape and climbed on board. The boat was a mess. Fingerprint dust covered everything and there were tagged baggies on the floor everywhere Ray stepped.

  He quickly tracked down Paul Casey.

  "What do we have, Paul?"

  "Well, this guy's just a considerate little psycho, isn't he?"

  Ray eyed the bags of garbage that were neatly stowed in a row along the far wall of the cabin.

  "Beer cans and potato chip bags. He cleaned it all up and set them there," Casey said, "presumably for garbage pick up."

  "I guess he didn't want to piss off his big sister."

  "Yeah, I guess he thought maybe she wouldn't mind him leaving a dead body as long as it wasn't surrounded by candy bar wrappers."

  "Other than that," Ray said, "anything else catch your eye?"

  "A couple things.” Casey retrieved a baggie with a newspaper clipping and held it up for Ray to see.

  Ray peered closely and could see the grainy, smudged picture of Lisa Young.

  He wasn't surprised. Lots of serial killers returned, both physically and mentally, to scenes of previous crimes.

  "You said a couple things, Paul."

  "Apparently, he's interested in his image, too."

  "Why do you say that?"

  Casey gestured for Mitchell to follow and the crime scene technician walked across the cabin to a small, recessed shelving unit installed next to the dining table.

  The bottom rack held a thick collection of magazines. Everything from People to Sports Afield.

  "His prints were all over here," Casey said, gesturing to the shelf, "but not on any of the magazines."

  Casey, wearing plastic gloves, slowly pulled a newspaper out from behind the magazines.

  "All of the magazines are dated no later than July. But see the date on the newspaper?"

  Ray looked.

  "Yesterday. The afternoon edition."

  Casey nodded.

  "Do you know what page it was open to? Take a wild guess."

  Casey handed Ray a pair of plastic gloves and then the paper. Mitchell's eye was immediately drawn to the headline detailing the chase involving Hank Campbell and Mike Sharpe.

  "It seems what he's doing isn't exciting enough for him so he's got to read about himself, too," the technician said.

  Ray studied the newspaper article and a wild thought occurred to him that he quickly dismissed. But it came back again.

  "No way," he said. “No way he’s crazy enough to do that.”

  Chapter 78

  Joe Ferkovich looked through the window at the branches outside. The sounds of birds in the trees and rustling of leaves in the s
oft breeze greeted his ears. He stretched as the muscles in his shoulders and arms still stiff from the night's work.

  Working from a vague memory of the area as well as the address listed in the newspaper, it had taken him longer than he would have liked to find it. And then it was a quick search of a nearby property for sale tucked back deeply into the woods.

  There was a large woodpile with rows and rows of logs separated by a thick tarp. He pushed the wood off and used the large tarp to cover the stolen cop car. He then methodically reassembled the woodpile around the car.

  Ferkovich had then broken into the small one-room shack and fallen dead asleep on an Army cot that had been tucked away in the closet off the kitchen.

  Now, as morning made its presence felt, Ferkovich swung his legs off the cot and stood.

  A quick search of the kitchen cabinets revealed empty shelves containing nothing but a thick layer of dust disturbed by tracks of mice.

  The stillness was disturbing to him. At least on the boat he had felt the gentle rocking of the waves beneath him and the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat. The noises had helped drown out the sound of the voices, easing the magnitude of the headaches.

  Thankfully, he wouldn't be here long.

  Ferkovich reached his hand down to his pants and caressed the butt of the pistol he'd taken from the cop. He snatched it out from beneath his waistband and the gun's heaviness felt good to him, like a wicked punch waiting to be thrown.

  He thought about his plan for the day.

  The cop car was way too hot so he couldn't use it anymore. But that didn't matter because he would soon have access to another car. He paced, thinking through his plan.

  When he had seen the Nation’s Most Wanted show, his initial reaction had been pure delight. He thought it was extremely funny that some guy was mistakenly being hunted down. It would've been hilarious if the guy had actually been killed.