Girl Jacked

by Christopher Greyson

  As he got close to the car, she pulled him halfway in the window and gave him a big hug.

  “You’ll have to stop by. I made cherries jubilee that will put you into sugar shock.” She patted his cheek and winked.

  “I will. Has everything been nice and quiet?”

  “Not a peep around the house,” she proclaimed and squeezed his hand. “All thanks to you.”

  “Well, I’d better get back to my walk.”

  “Don’t dawdle. It looks like rain. Be sure to stop by.” She waved and jammed on the gas.

  Jack cringed as she drove in the wrong lane for fifty feet before slowly crossing over to the right lane.

  He hurried to the library and turned around without going in. As he headed back into town, he realized it was Tuesday because of the increase in foot traffic. Forgetting what day it was made him yearn for a work schedule. His frustration was causing his body to tense. He uncurled his clenched fists and shook his hands.

  I need some way to ask questions at the college. Dr. Franklin. Two people have brought him up so I should call Hahn and see if I can go back out. I can say that I’m organizing something from Michelle’s friends for Haddie. A remembrance book. Yeah, that should work. While I’m out there, I’ll look up Franklin.

  When Jack looked left to cross the street, he noticed a guy in an oversized blue parka. It was the second time he’d noticed him. The first was two miles back when he’d come out of his apartment.

  The guy was following him.

  Walk calmly. Don’t rush. Left. Right. Left. Right. Swing your arms normally. Look around a little.

  He kept walking straight, straining to hear anything behind him. He took a left down a little side street. There were a couple of people walking down the sidewalk and a few parked cars. He jumped into the shadow of a large doorway and pressed his back against the wall.

  Wait. Listen.

  He tried to drown out the sounds of the cars.

  Footsteps. Running.

  The guy in the parka ran past him down the sidewalk. His face was gaunt and marked with sores.

  Another addict.

  He was about an inch taller than Jack and from his thin face, he figured he weighed under one eighty.

  Great time to have left your gun at home.

  “Looking for me?”

  As the man spun around, Jack could see a pair of glazed eyes that gave away a world of information.

  He’s wired. Scared. Mad. Crazy.

  His pupils were gone, and there was a creepy grin on his face. He lunged.

  Jack sprang forward as the man moved. Jack’s hand came down to block, and he saw a knife headed for his gut. He scooped it to the side, but as he went to grab the guy’s wrist he realized something was wrong. The thumb is the weakest part of the grip, but as Jack twisted the addict’s hand, it wouldn’t open.

  Because Jack pushed forward and stepped to the left, it took him out of the knife’s path. It also moved him into the middle of the sidewalk. Jack pivoted, but the motion placed too much weight on his injured leg. Pain shot up his thigh, and his scream of agony turned into a guttural growl. His leg shook then went limp.

  Jack was falling backward. He pulled the man with him as he fell. He held onto the guy’s hand with the knife, and they crashed into a parked car and then landed on the sidewalk.

  The damned knife is duct taped to his wrist.

  He knew from personal experience that homeless people do that to hold the knife while they sleep.

  He twisted the guy’s wrist.

  Fast and hard.

  He heard something snap.

  The guy screamed, but so did Jack as the man’s knee landed right on his injured thigh. Jack’s hand reflexively opened, and the man pulled his injured arm away.

  With his other hand, he punched Jack in the face. It was a quick punch, but it had a lot of power. The blow caught Jack across the chin. He saw stars and his vision blurred. He could taste blood in his mouth.

  Day after day, his instructor had drilled the science of martial arts into his head.

  Force equals mass times acceleration. You can’t make your hand any bigger, but you can make it faster. Speed . . . Speed kills.

  Jack brought his right hand up to the left side of his face, and his fist flashed out. His arm moved so fast it was a blur. The bottom, meaty part of his hand connected with the guy’s jaw and continued through. Jack felt the jaw break.

  The guy was smashed backward. A muffled wail burst from his broken mouth. He spit blood and teeth onto the sidewalk.

  Jack rolled on his side and pushed himself up. His thigh muscles contracted, and he fell back down.

  His attacker scrambled backward and got to his feet. Jack pulled himself up to his knees.

  The man saw Jack getting up, turned, and ran. Jack howled in frustration. He knew he could barely walk, let alone catch the guy. As he fumbled for his phone, he noticed a small crowd rushing toward him.

  People asked, “Are you okay?” and “Are you hurt?” Jack punched in a number he could dial in his sleep.

  “Darrington Police.”

  “Bev, this is Jack. A guy tried to knife me, need pursuit.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s running south down Oak. Male suspect about six feet, one eighty, dark blue parka with blue jeans and boots. He has a knife taped to his broken wrist.”

  “Broken wrist? So he has a cast on his arm?” she asked as she repeated his information over the radio.

  “No, but his wrist is broken . . .”

  “How do you know?”

  “I broke it.”

  Jack glanced around.

  “I’m on Laurel Road.”

  Jack stretched his leg to try to get blood back in it. He winced and his eyes narrowed.

  Finally, a live suspect.

  Chapter 33 ~

  Loose Ends

  “I’ll see you later. I won’t be home until late,” Replacement called on her way out of the apartment. Jack heard her pick up the car keys from the hall table, then open and close the front door.

  “Bye.” Jack stood staring at the door.

  Damn. Something is up. She’s not talking about work, and she’s coming home later and later. She’s wearing makeup and perfume now.

  He shook himself out of his thoughts and moved back to the computer. Taking a swig of coffee, he got back to work. His attacker had vanished. They had an APB out with all the surrounding towns, but he was a ghost.

  He’ll turn up.

  Jack had picked the man’s mug shot out in under thirty minutes. He was from Rockland. Bennie Mayer. He had a long list of priors: B&E, assault, marijuana, cocaine, and meth. Bennie also did time off and on.

  Jack stared out the window, aggravated. He’d rather be out looking for Bennie the Goon right now.

  The guy was watching my apartment. He was waiting for me. It wasn’t random.

  Jack saw his face, saw his eyes.

  I don’t think he started out to kill me. He must have wanted to follow me. When I surprised him, he panicked. He was scared, but he turned into a scared killer.

  He’d seen it before. He’d never met anyone who didn’t care about killing. Taking another person’s life freaked out most people, very few were just plain evil. Most were scared, but their own anger or hate overcame their fears, and that’s when they killed.

  That’s what the guy looked like. He was going to kill Jack. It may have been the drugs, but Jack saw him make the decision. He could have run, but he chose to kill instead.

  Could it be that someone wanted me dead because I was asking questions? I need to find that goon.

  He pulled up the list of hospitals in the surrounding area and groaned. It was going to be a long day.

  Jack spent hours calling every hospital. When that turned up nothing, he called every regional clinic. Finally, he ran through the alphabet calling doctor’s offices. No one had a walk-in with a broken wrist and jaw. Nothing. He was sure he’d snapped the wrist and broken the jaw,
but no one matching the description showed up.

  Switch gears. I’m spinning my tires.

  Jack changed back to looking at Tiffany McAllister. He flipped to her autopsy report. No sexual assault. Meth OD. As he expected, there was a ton of medical jargon. Jack kept hitting the page-down key.

  Then he thought of something.

  Pictures.

  The autopsy photos were all high resolution and took forever to load. They photographed the entire body, but Jack wanted to see a close-up of Tiffany’s face. The pages continued to load until that face filled the monitor. Jack shut his eyes for a second. He’d seen death many times, but it was still hard, almost surreal to him.

  Maybe all I can do for her is find the monster that did this.

  He scanned around her eyes. He was looking for something. There was slight bruising around the right eye. He clicked and zoomed in on it. There it was. It was very, very faint but clear. There was a small square patch on her cheek. He zoomed in as far as he could, a rectangle.

  Her eyes had been taped open.

  The medical examiner can find out a lot more, but it’s there. The tape on the eyes links the two cases—Tiffany McAllister to Charlie Harding.

  Jack leaned back in his chair.

  The computer lab has Michelle’s phone with the video tape of a guy getting tortured. I have proof it’s related at least to Tiffany’s death. That’s enough for them to go on. They’ll be able to get a warrant with that. Tomorrow . . . I’m back at work tomorrow, and I can get down to Joe and lay it all out to him face to face. Once they get the video, I can fill in the details of who and what and then lead them to Tiffany. They’ll also have to reexamine Michelle’s autopsy photos to look for tape around her eyes.

  Jack got up and stretched. His leg started to hurt from sitting for so long. He paced the floor.

  Damn it. He picked up the phone and dialed Joe Davenport’s cell phone.

  I should tell him right now.

  Joe’s voice mail picked up. “Detective Joe Davenport. I’m currently unavailable. Detective Flynn can be reached by contacting . . .”

  He hung up the phone. He looked up at the clock. It was six twenty.

  Maybe he’s eating dinner . . . I’ll try again later.

  He looked over his notes.

  Loose ends. Lots of loose ends.

  He decided to call Western Technical University.

  “Registrar’s Office, how can we help?”

  Jack had to explain who he was to three separate people. He looked at the clock. One hour and he hadn’t asked a question yet.

  “Mr. Wellington’s office, how can we help?” The woman on the other end of the line had an irritating singsong voice.

  “How can you help? Miss, I have been on hold for over an hour. My name is Jack Stratton, and I’m calling concerning my sister Michelle Campbell. She supposedly transferred to your college but . . . she was killed.” Jack heard the woman gasp. “Can you please answer a few questions about her transfer?”

  “I’ll certainly do whatever I can to help, sir.”

  “Her name is Michelle Campbell . . .”

  “I’m looking at her transfer now, sir.”

  “Did she register for classes?”

  “Yes. She signed up for a full course requirement.”

  “Did she sign up for housing?”

  “No.”

  “Meal tickets?”

  “No.”

  “Library access?”

  “No.”

  “Anything besides the classes?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “How long does it take to get approved for classes?”

  “Instantly.”

  Jack held the phone away from his head. “What? How can you get accepted to a college instantly?”

  “Well, she’s just transferring classes. We’re a sister college. She can take any classes here that she wants.”

  “So she just signed up for classes there? She didn’t transfer?”

  “We’re a sister college, so technically, yes.”

  Technically I’m going to strangle you.

  “When did she apply for the classes?”

  “December 20.”

  “How do you know that?”

  There was a pause. “I know it because it’s the date that’s written on the form.”

  “Lady . . .” Jack’s frustration was getting the better of him. “Is there a way you can tell when they electronically submitted the form?”

  “Hold please.”

  “No.”

  Jack waited for over fifteen more minutes.

  He looked back up at the clock.

  What’s it . . . four forty-two on the west coast? I need this information today.

  By the time the hold music stopped, he didn’t know if he’d be able to speak without swearing.

  “Hey. You still there?” A young man was speaking on the other end of the line.

  “I’m on hold for . . .” Damn. I don’t have her name.

  “Are you the guy looking for the date on the form?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m from the computer help desk. How can I help?”

  “Can you get a date . . . can you please tell me the date that Michelle Campbell signed up for those classes? Electronically. Not the date that’s written on the form.”

  “Sure, dude. Hold on.”

  Jack could hear someone typing in the background.

  “The time stamp on the doc is December 20 at ten o three p.m.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. The computer stamps it. I’m looking at the electronic time stamp. December 20 at ten o three p.m.”

  She could have signed up herself while she was still at the school. Dead-end . . . Wait.

  “You’re talking Pacific Standard Time. Eastern would make it December 21, one o’clock a.m., one o three a.m. here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need a copy of that report.”

  Chapter 34 ~

  The Pit

  Early in the morning the following day, Jack walked through the doors of the police station with a large folder in his hands. Even though his first shift back wasn’t until later that afternoon, he had Replacement drop him off this morning. He stayed up half the night getting everything prepared to give to Collins. As he marched down the corridor, other police officers came over and patted him on the back or shook his hand. He hated the attention.

  “Jack?”

  He turned around just as Kendra crashed into him to give him a big hug. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his. Jack stood there with his hands at his sides.

  “This is getting awkward,” he joked after a couple seconds.

  She stood back and tried to appear more stoic, but she was still beaming.

  “When did you get back on?”

  “Tonight, I have to see Collins first.”

  “He’s out.”

  “How long is he out?” Jack groaned.

  She shrugged. “Are you cleared to come back?”

  “Healthy as a horse. I have a hard head.”

  “Everyone was worried about you. Did you get my flowers?”

  Jack chuckled. “I did. Thanks. I have to go check in.” He nodded down the hallway.

  “Welcome back.” Kendra started to open her arms as she moved in but caught herself. She gave him a quick shot in the arm and turned around.

  “Not here? I didn’t know he’d be gone,” Jack complained.

  The police secretary looked up at him and smiled. “I was not aware you were on the list of people to be informed of scheduling.”

  Jack exhaled and his lips pressed together.

  “He’s at the National Sheriff’s Association Conference in Charlotte,” she added and then swiveled around to her keyboard.

  “When is he coming back?”

  “He left Wednesday. I think it’s a five-day conference. So, he should be back on Monday. He can be reached if it’s an emergency.” She
didn’t look up and instead continued to type.

  “Not exactly an emergency. Um, do you know when Joe Davenport is in?”

  “Nine a.m.” She went back to typing. “When he gets back.”

  “What?” Jack snapped.

  “Detective Davenport is on vacation, a fishing trip to Canada.” She continued to type, but she was striking the keys with more force now. “If you want a copy of the schedule it’s posted near the water cooler.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  She stopped typing and swiveled back to glare at him. “It’s posted on the schedule.” She leaned forward and read his badge. “Officer Stratton. Detective Davenport will return on Saturday. If you—” She stopped and her eyes went wide. “Jack Stratton?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I’m so sorry. You should have said something. How are you?”

  Said something? Yeah I’m the guy that got hit by the car. Can you be nice and answer a simple question?

  “Much better, thank you. I just need to speak to Collins or Joe.”

  The woman’s hands went up and out. “Sheriff Collins checks his messages in between meetings or you can text 911 if it’s an emergency. Undersheriff Morrison is available, and Detective Flynn is covering for Detective Davenport. Can they help?”

  Jack tapped the folder against the edge of the desk.

  I’m screwed. I don’t think Collins likes Morrison so much. I can’t give it to Flynn after what happened. Joe’s not back for two days.

  “Thanks.”

  Jack shook his head and walked away.

  Jack held the phone up to his ear, and he didn’t have to wait. Davenport’s voice mail picked up.

  “Detective Joe Davenport. I’m currently unavailable. Detective Flynn can be reached by contacting . . .”

  Jack hung up and tried Sheriff Collins. His message clicked on right away too.

  “Sheriff Ethan Collins. I’ll be in and out of conferences all day. If this is an emergency text me and I’ll call you back immediately. If not, then Undersheriff Morrison is covering and can be reached by contacting . . .”

  He debated for a second and then hung up.

  He called Detective Davenport again. “This is Officer Stratton. Can you give me a call when you get a chance? It’s in regard to my sister’s case. My number is . . .”