The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4)

by T Patrick Phelps

  “Yes, your Honor. I used cocaine that I purchased from Alex Manner. And, yes, that cocaine was manufactured right here in Ravenswood.”

  “And this cocaine,” the judge continued, “has a few side effects. Two of these side effects include short-term memory loss and an extreme propensity to be influenced or controlled by another person.” The Judge was spitting the words out, as if having them in his mouth was turning his stomach. “And, according to my brief, this Alex Manner, from whom you admit you purchased the controlled and illegal narcotic, was able to control your actions and thoughts once you were deeply under the influence of the drug. Am I understanding everything correctly, Mr. Randall?”

  “That’s what I’m told. Like I’ve said, I don’t remember much about that night. But, I know I used cocaine and I believe I started the fire that killed the Mack’s.”

  “The challenge we have here, Mr. Randall, is that this Alex Manner has not been apprehended. That means, Mr. Randall, we cannot confirm the role you are accusing him of playing in this tragic event. Furthermore, the owner of the compounding facility where this cocaine with magical powers was created, a Mr. Leonard La Salle, passed away as a result of an overdose. Meaning, he cannot confirm or deny that those using his cocaine formula can be controlled while under its influence. And lastly, La Salle’s partner, TJ Harris, while in the custody of law enforcement, is choosing not to say a word about his possible involvement in this situation. Which means, he may not ever fill in any of the gaps in your story. Have I missed anything?”

  “Just that Brian Mack was my friend. Someone I respected. Someone whom I would never do anything to harm.”

  “But you did, Mr. Randall. You not only harmed Brian Mack, but you killed him with your actions, intended or otherwise. Your actions brought about his death. And that, coupled with this court’s inability to confirm your story, creates the challenge I have in accepting the agreement your attorney reached with our distinguished District Attorney.”

  “Your honor,” Bo’s attorney spoke up, “independent labs have confirmed that the cocaine manufactured at the La Salle Compounding Facility and used by my client, as well as several other Ravenswood citizens, was mixed with a highly hallucinogenic plant extract. In addition, several narcotic experts and independent labs agree that this mixture, once ingested, will make the user prone to being controlled.”

  “Did those independent sources suggest that this magical cocaine also possessed the ability to force itself up and into your client’s nose?”

  “No, your Honor. The cocaine was willingly used by my client.”

  “And,” the Judge continued, without missing a beat, “unless I am mistaken, cocaine is illegal in this state and lacks the governmental seal of purity and approval. Which means that your client willingly used an uncontrolled, illegal drug, and had no reasonable assurances of the consequences of doing so. Have I got that right, council?”

  Bo’s attorney agreed with the judge, then stood still and quiet next to Bo.

  The judge gave Bo a long, hard, stare. To Bo, it seemed like the judge was bouncing options around in his head like people bounce a beachball back and forth in a pool. The only question Bo had was where the beachball would land. Bo took a small step forward, and, in spite of what his lawyer had suggested, he spoke directly to the judge. “Your Honor,” he began, “I know I’m guilty. I started the fire that killed my friend and his mother. I admit to using cocaine, drinking too much and losing control of my mind and actions that night, and no matter how severe of a penalty you give me, I deserve it. Probably deserve more than the worst you can dish out. But let me tell you about my last few days and about some realizations I’ve made. My father turned out to be more interested in covering his own ass and in protecting his reputation than defending me. My mother was attacked, put in the hospital, and while she will be fine, the doctors say that she’ll always have a degree of disability because of what happened to her. She wouldn’t have been in Ravenswood and wouldn’t have had her skull cracked if I hadn’t done what I did. I’ve lost any hope of becoming chief at the fire department and will be lucky to ever be allowed to become a member again. And lastly, someone I respected, cared for, looked up to and loved, was killed because of my decisions. Your Honor, this may not be the smartest thing I can say to you, but, it really doesn’t matter what you sentence me to; I have to live with myself for the rest of my life. And that, your Honor, is the very definition of a life sentence.”

  ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

  Nikkie was released from the hospital Monday evening around eight. She was instructed to drink plenty of water, get plenty of rest and to see her own doctor if she developed any severe headaches or experienced any breathing challenges.

  “All things considered,” the doctor said before signing Nikkie’s discharge paperwork, “you’re one extremely lucky young lady. No burns, no permanent injuries, just some tired-out lungs and a few scratches from being pulled out through a window. Very lucky, indeed.”

  Hospital policy insisted that Nikkie be taken to the hospital’s main entrance in a wheelchair. The last thing they wanted was for a patient to fall in their hallway, sustain injuries and sue them for malpractice. As Nikkie and Derek waited in her hospital room for someone to bring up the wheelchair, Derek’s cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID told him it was Investigator Mark Mullins calling.

  “Nikkie doing okay?” Mullins asked. Then without pausing for Derek to answer, he continued, “I heard what happened at the fire. She’s damn lucky our fire department boys are as good as they are.”

  “We both are,” Derek said. “I was getting ready to crash through the window to get her out. I would’ve killed us both if John Mather hadn’t knocked me out. I have a sore jaw but things certainly worked out for the best.”

  “I suppose they did. I suppose they did. Tell me, Cole, what are your plans for the rest of the evening?”

  Derek glanced at an elderly man, dressed in blue hospital scrubs, entering Nikkie’s room. He was smiling a broad, brilliantly white smile, and said as he gestured to the wheelchair he was pushing, “Madam, your chariot has arrived.”

  “Nikkie is getting busted out of here right now. As far as what my plans are, not exactly sure, but I’d imagine I’ll take her back to the hotel so she can get some rest.”

  “If you are planning to drop me off while you and Mullins go out to have a drink,” Nikkie said as she sat in the surprisingly comfortable wheelchair, “you can forget it. I feel fine and will have plenty of time to rest tomorrow.”

  “Looks like my evening plans have changed,” Derek said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I haven’t had one of Lance’s award winning steak burgers for too damn long. Meet me there in twenty?”

  Mark Mullins was sitting at a small, round table, chatting with Lance Mahoney when Derek and Nikkie arrived. They sat down beside the two.

  “Let me guess,” Lance said through a smile, “cheap scotch for you,” he said pointing to Derek, “and a watered down Vodka for the lady?”

  ”I’ll have scotch,” Nikkie said, “if it’s all the same to you. But none of the cheap, rotgut Derek drinks.”

  “And two burgers with fries; the same I had the other night,” Derek said.

  “Make that three. And the tallest, coldest beer you have on tap. Whichever one meets the requirements of your happy hour special, that is.” Mullins smiled at Derek and Nikkie, raised an imaginary glass towards them in a toasting gesture. “Have to tell you both, I don’t think I could have solved this case without your assistance. At least, not as quickly as it was solved.”

  “You hear anything about Bo Randall?” Derek asked.

  “Judge Randall Richardson sentenced him to three years probation and six months of residency up at Pathways House. It’s a drug and alcohol recovery place, about an hour north of Syracuse.”

  “Considering everything, it sounds like a fair deal for Bo.”

  Lance returned to the table, carrying a round tr
ay full of drinks. He placed them one at time, beginning with Nikkie’s, in front of the three, then sat down holding his drink. “Food has been ordered,” he said. “What fries my ass, and this is by no means a criticism of you, Frosty, is that Alex Manner is still out there, running free. That son of a bitch should be behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  “He won’t be running for long,” Mullins said. “Guys like Manner can’t stay clean enough to keep out of trouble for long. If he’s lucky, I’ll give him a month before his luck runs out. But I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s been picked up by some small-town police department inside of a week. And when he does show up back in my holding cell, he’ll be charged with the murder of Gene Witten, the murder of Brenden Lull, arson, the murder of those two yet-to-be-identified souls in the fire he started at the compounding facility, assault, kidnapping and a whole mess of drug related charges. The day we pick him up will be the last day he spends looking at the world without steel bars blocking his view.”

  Derek said, “Probably a stupid question, but do you have enough evidence against him?”

  “Not stupid at all,” Mullins said. “Manner actually did a pretty good job of covering his ass. But he did make enough critical mistakes so that when we do cross paths with him, we’ll have more than enough to send him away. We believe he was the Witten shooter, first of all. We found the thirty caliber rifle in a closet of the small efficiency apartment he rents outside of town. Perfect match to the bullet recovered at the cinema scene. Nikkie here is the perfect eye witness to the arson, kidnapping, assault and double murder charge, and Bo Randall and a bunch of others in town will testify that Alex Manner was the guy who sold them cocaine.”

  “And how about TJ Harris?” Nikkie asked.

  “He tried to pin the whole thing on Leonard La Salle. Told us he had just found out about Alex Manner and the drug combination he was selling and was at the compounding facility yesterday to clear out his office. Said he was quitting as Vice President of La Salle Compounding Facility and was preparing to let the authorities know everything he suspected was going on at La Salle. The truth is, he may have gotten away with it if not for Louis Randall.”

  “How so?”

  “I called Randall as soon we found La Salle dead in the woods and after we apprehended Harris. His number was one of the recent calls dialed from Harris’ cell. I told him he could either wait till a trooper showed up at his home to escort him to my office at the barracks, or he could drive himself down. He chose the latter. I told him what we knew at that point, and old Randall started telling me everything. About how he was an investor in La Salle’s place but had no idea they were getting involved in drugs. He told me Harris called him and threatened that he would tell authorities he was involved in the drug selling endeavors of La Salle’s business unless Randall helped with covering everything up. I’m as sure as I can be about Randall having zero involvement with the drug sales. I believe he suspected something unusual was happening but the dividends from his investment kept pouring in and, hell, it’s probably hard for a guy like Randall to not look the other way when looking the other way keeps the money flowing.

  “The only thing we can pin on Louis is that he was an investor in La Salle’s business, and that isn’t a crime. He has enough plausible deniability about having any knowledge of what they were really doing at the compounding facility, that no grand jury in the world would send his case to court. Nope, Louis Randall will probably walk away with his reputation unblemished. Truth is, I believe what he told me at the station. He said the only reason he pushed so hard for a plea bargain was that the evidence against his son was so damn compelling that if he tried to mount a defense, his son would have been sent to prison for twenty-five to life.”

  Derek scratched his head. While he had grown accustomed to never knowing answers to all of the questions and mysteries surrounding his cases, there were still too many in the Bo Randall case for him to walk away without knowing more. “The guys in the closet, the ones burned to death in the house fire. Who were they?”

  “Not sure of their identities yet,” Mullins said. “Bodies are pretty burned up, but we’re leaning towards both being from Utica. We have reports of two missing from a drug and alcohol rehab facility up in Utica. Both went missing from the program four days ago and haven’t been seen since. Friends of theirs, or, should I say, other drug addicts who spent time with these two, all identified a picture of Alex Manner as the guy these two were last seen with. What I believe happened is Manner needed some help cleaning things up in Ravenswood, gave these guys some free cocaine, then was able to control them when they were under the influence. We’ll know more one Manner is in our custody.”

  “Alex told me while we were in the house that one of the guys in the closest was Crown’s attacker,” Nikkie said.

  “Probably true,” Mullins responded. “And it’s probably true that Manner gave him Bo’s cell phone with instructions to drop the cell near the crime scene. What I’m thinking is that once Manner found out that Bo was Crown’s son and that you and Derek were hired to do some investigation, he started to panic. He knew he couldn’t risk being seen by either of you and chose to exploit the cocaine mixture’s mind-control side effect to clean up his mess.”

  “He was on the conference call during our team meeting when Crown told us the trouble Bo was in,” Derek said. “He must have started scheming right then and there.”

  “Probably right,” Mullins said. “The last thing we have on Manner is his involvement in the Patel family murder. We’re pretty sure the Patel’s neighbor, Matthew McCormick, was the murderer, but people in the neighborhood reported seeing McCormick walking away from his house a few minutes after the police showed up on scene. Some of those neighbors are pretty sure that Manner was leading McCormick to a car and drove him away.”

  “Ever find McCormick to ask him?”

  “Not yet and we’re ninety-nine percent sure McCormick wasn’t one of the bodies found burned to death in the house. McCormick was around six foot one, and neither victims were that tall. I say we’ll come across McCormick’s body one of these days. I’d be willing to bet Manner drove him someplace, killed him and dumped his body someplace he believed it would never be found.”

  “One more thing that I don’t understand,” Derek said. “The whole knife-in-the-couch thing with Bo? I know there’s footage showing that Bo bought the knife along with gas cans at a Bass Pro Shops, and the note attached to the knife was written on the back of the Bass Pro receipt; but who the hell, or why the hell, was the knife stuck in the couch?”

  “Why Bo bought the knife, we may never know. But, I do believe Bo put the knife in his couch after he returned from setting the fire at Mack’s house. I’m no narcotic expert, but cocaine use can cause strong feelings of paranoia. I think Bo got home after the fire, felt that something happened and believed that someone was out to cause him harm. He probably put the knife in his couch as a sort of cocaine induced, paranoia-driven alarm system. Doesn’t make much sense but it’s the only thing I can think of.”

  Nikkie said, “But, Louis Randall said the handwriting on the note didn’t match Bo’s.”

  “I spoke to a sergeant with the sheriff’s department, who told me narcotics not only change someone’s personality, but they can also create a whole new persona if the drug is strong enough,” Mullins said.

  “Like a split personality?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Mullins answered. “All in all, the knife in the couch thing is small time compared to everything else. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to find out the truth behind it, but, at this point, I’m comfortable with my theory.”

  The four shared more stories and opinions, both of the Ravenswood case and past cases for the next two hours. Their meals consumed and drinking completed, it was time for Nikkie and Derek to head back to their hotel.

  “You both flying home tomorrow?” Lance asked.

  “I like driving home after I finish a case,” De
rek said. “Gives me time to process things.”

  “When is Victoria getting released?” Mullins asked.

  “Won’t be for a while,” Derek said. “And she won’t be released home even after she leaves the hospital. She has a long road of recovery ahead of her and will be sent to a rehab facility that specializes in traumatic brain injuries after the hospital discharges her. Feel bad leaving her behind, but hopefully Bo will be able to visit her while she’s still in the hospital up in Utica.”

  “And,” Nikkie said, her voice small, reserved, “I think I’m going to hang around here for a while. With Bo being sent away to the rehab place, I wouldn’t feel right about leaving her all alone.” Nikkie glanced at Derek who nodded his approval of her decision.

  “You know,” Lance said after Derek and Nikkie had turned and moved towards the door, “I went ahead a renamed that burger you liked so much after you. I call it ‘Private Eye.’ I thought about calling it the ‘Private Dick’ but that name might conjure up a mental image I highly doubt will do much for sales. You’ll have to come back and see how popular it’s become.”

  “We’ll be back, Lance,” Nikkie said.

  “And I’ll call ahead to make sure you have a couple Private Eye burgers ready for us,” Derek said.

  When they reached the front door of Route 69 Bar and Grill, Nikkie moved closer to Derek, their hips rubbing against each other’s. “So, you thinking about replacing Alex Manner with another detective?”

  “Actually,” Derek said, “I am. And I already know who I’m going to recruit.”

  “Let me guess,” Nikkie said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Your friend, Ralph?”

  “Pretty sure he got let go from his Chief of Police job and, if I know Ralph, he isn’t the type of guy who’d be comfortable sitting around with nothing to do.”

  When they reached Derek’s rental car, Derek opened the passenger’s side door for Nikkie. She smiled a thank you, sat, then looked up at him, and said, “Think we’ll be able to handle things at the agency without Crown telling us what to do, where we need to be and what cases to accept?” Nikkie asked. She smiled at him, giving a charge of comfort and warmth to Derek.