by Tom Fowler
Rich's mouth clicked shut. He nodded. "Makes sense. You said the robbery crews seemed to change a lot?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if some of the people giving product to the pickup guy were giving more than honey and vegetables."
I thought about that for a moment. "Rich," I said, "you know what this could mean."
"No," he said. "Jim wouldn't take part in something like this."
"I don't think we can be sure of—"
"I can be sure of it!"
We wouldn't get anywhere this way. Rich would get pissed and tell me to call an Uber again. I had no proof, anyway, so I dropped it. For now. "Fine. But I think you know what we need to do next."
"I do."
"How are your following skills?"
"Good enough to make up for having a big blue Camaro," said Rich.
***
Early the next morning, Rich and I sat in his car. He parked three houses up from the Sheltons'. We each had the largest coffee Sheetz sold, which was twenty-four ounces. I could have used half again as many. I ate a turkey sausage breakfast burrito of above-average flavor. Rich scarfed down a couple donuts and a bearclaw pastry that looked to be the size of an actual bear's claw. I couldn't believe he still ate such garbage. Rich is about six and a half years older than me, making him thirty-six. I, not yet twenty-nine, still had the metabolism to shrug off a morning of ingesting sugary rubbish. Rich was at an age where he could pay for things like that. Of course, he had been six feet tall and two hundred pounds for so long, I wondered if he skipped birth and came into the world fully formed.
"How do you think this all went down?" he said after chomping a chunk of the pastry.
I considered making a crack about Rich's breakfast but refrained. Doing pastry puns before eight is not in my wheelhouse. "I think George found out where shipments were going," I said. "He could have access to the information. Then he would tell Pete, who would rustle up a crew."
"I hate this case," Rich said. "Jim Shelton dies, and a bunch of other veterans were probably used as robbers."
"Maybe they got paid in drugs," I said. "Some of them already could have had issues."
"It's possible." Rich's nostrils flared. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. If we got to arrest Pete and George, they would need some of their own pilfered painkillers after Rich finished with them.
"We'll get them," I said.
"I know. And I want to make sure we do it as right as possible."
We differed on that. If I found a corner to cut, I would do it. Technology was a wonderful thing. Rich, by contrast, would quote chapter and verse from the law and the police manual. Our styles didn't mesh. Despite this, we ended up working together in some capacity on most of my cases. I was still surprised Rich wanted me to come with him out here. He had enough friends on the force to invite someone with a similar level of love for the rulebooks.
Silence ruled the day for the next few minutes. I finished my breakfast burrito, and Rich washed down the last of his pastry with a big swig of coffee. We watched the Shelton house. Nothing. The clock ticked eight. The pickup driver was now officially late. None of the other houses showed any activity. It was a sleepy Saturday morning for everyone except us. I watched some leaves shake free of trees in the wind and spiral to the ground. The last of my coffee went down my throat. It was good. I wished they sold a bigger cup.
At about ten after, a cargo van pulled up in front of the Shelton's house. It was white, with no windows after the passenger compartment, and no lettering on the side. Perfectly nondescript. Even if someone saw this van involved in something illicit, there were hundreds of vehicles like it on the roads at any given time. I wondered if it was stolen. I figured the plates were, or a set would be if the driver or his boss sniffed anything suspicious. A man got out and walked toward the house. He had his back to us, but he looked short and dumpy. If someone stole merchandise from him, he wasn't catching the thief on foot.
The driver knocked on the door. From my angle, I couldn't see anything happening inside the house. He left the porch a minute later and walked around to the back of the house. I saw Connie Shelton in the backyard. She directed him to the shed, which she unlocked. The driver picked up three boxes. Each was about the size of those paper ream boxes from office supply stores. Connie locked the shed, and the driver carried his haul to the van. Rich and I both slumped down in our seats. He went to the back of the vehicle, and a moment later, climbed back in behind the wheel. We stayed low while he turned around and drove back down the street.
Rich fired up the Camaro, and it roared to life like a lion who had been denied his breakfast. He eased it onto the roads. We kept the van in our sights. It had no rear windows, either; the driver had to use his exterior mirrors to see anything behind him. I figured this would help us follow him, but Rich was the expert here. We got onto Route 219 and took it out of the city, onto Route 39. It wound around a lot and became Route 7 after we crossed the West Virginia border. Other twisty-turny roads followed, and I stopped keeping track of the numbers. The Camaro hugged the curves, allowing Rich to keep a reasonable distance behind the van. An old pickup truck got between us at some point.
We soon got onto I-79. Ten miles later, we were back on the West Virginia county roads. I expected to hear someone whistle Dixie every time we drove past a farmhouse. Eventually, we left Route 19 for Village Way. A large brick building loomed ahead. It had to be our destination. The van turned into the delivery entrance. Rich pulled the Camaro into a parking lot on the other side of the street, affording us a good view of all the comings and goings. We waited.
Outside Fairmont Regional Medical Center.
***
"What do you think he's doing in there?" I said.
"Probably picking up drugs," said Rich.
"Pretty brazen to distribute them right from the hospital."
"It's also pretty brazen to rob opioid shipments."
This was certainly true. The whole operation was bold. I hated referring to it this way because it sounded like a compliment, and I didn't want to offer praise to the kind of assholes who got people hooked on drugs and murdered veterans. "So if he's adding drugs to those boxes," I said, "we should see where he takes them."
"I plan to," Rich said.
"And then what?"
"We lean on somebody."
"Who?" I said.
"Depends," he said. "Maybe the driver, if he seems like he'll knuckle under. Or maybe whoever he drops the drugs off to."
"He could be making more than one stop."
Rich nodded. "True. This network could be bigger than we thought."
It must have been. I thought the problem lay in Oakland at first. It had all the signs. But cities across the border in West Virginia were in similar straits. The jobs that dried up affected people in both states. Vicodin, Oxycodone, and similar pills filled some gaps for people who had holes in the center of them. Eventually, the drugs ruled their lives. Sometimes, they ended their lives. Mostly, they just ruined them. This was a nationwide problem. We were seeing it in two communities. We could shut Land of the Brave down, but doing so wouldn't get rid of everyone's pills or addictions. Other suppliers would fill the vacuum. I didn't know how to stop the problem here, and I didn't envy anyone who tried to reverse it on a larger scale.
A few minutes later, we saw the van emerge from the delivery entrance. Rich left the parking lot and pulled out behind him. As we drove, I felt the weight of the .45 holstered at my left side. The chase was on again. I wondered where it would take us.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first stop was about ten minutes away. The van pulled into the parking lot of a small grocery store. Rich drove past the store and parked at a Chinese restaurant about a hundred yards away. The driver carried one box inside. It was a different guy this time, taller and much slimmer. "New driver," I said. Rich didn't answer. "I guess the boxes still have honey in them."
"Maybe."
"I know they
're running a brazen operation, but it would be another level entirely to deliver nothing but drugs to a market."
"I guess," Rich said. He narrowed his eyes and looked around. The grocery store was part of a small strip mall. A third of the businesses had shuttered. Some of their names were still visible, as the cleaner portions of the stone front the letters occupied stood out against the grime. I counted five boarded-up windows and doors. You could see more driving down some streets in Baltimore. "Too many people." Rich kept looking around. "His stop doesn't look too busy, but some of the other places are. We can't accost this asshole here."
I nodded. "I guess we'll have to see where he goes next."
"If he takes one box to each stop, he should have two more."
"And the farther he gets from the hospital, maybe the farther he gets from anyone who would help him."
Rich grinned. "There are occasions I like the way you think," he said.
"Try it more often," I said. "You might come to love it."
"No, thanks."
"It doesn't suit you," I said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You are who you are, Rich. You're a guy who knows and respects the law. And you've done well for yourself. I'm honestly surprised you're even up here, out of your jurisdiction, with your scofflaw cousin."
"I could have brought some cops," Rich said.
"I'm surprised you didn't."
Rich took a deep breath. He did it a lot when he was deep in thought. "You're right; your way of thinking doesn't suit me. It suits you. Another cop would probably think too much like me. Even someone like Paul King." King was another BPD detective. He played faster and looser than Rich, especially in areas of personal grooming, but when it came down to it, King was a cop. Serve and protect. Uphold the law. I came from a different world. The rules and statutes often got in the way. The world was flexible, and the law wasn't. People like Rich didn't see this as a problem. People like me bent the law to find solutions.
"If I didn't know better," I said, "I would think you paid me a compliment there."
"Good thing you know better," Rich said with a grin.
The driver walked out of the store, sans box, and got back into his van. He pulled onto the main road. We were close behind him. Rich followed well. He drove a distinctive car, which was a negative, but he always kept a reasonable distance, drove in other lanes, and didn't care if another car came between him and the target. The dickhead in the van hadn't given any indication he was wise to a tail. Of course, if four goons got out of a crew cab pickup at the next stop, we'd know he spotted us. So far, so good.
"So many overdoses out here," Rich said.
I had done a little reading. Certain parts of West Virginia were especially hard-hit by the opioid crisis. Children as young as twelve overdosed and died. Elderly people in their eighties met the same fate. People tended to think of drug addiction as some kind of failing of a person's character or moral fiber. The problem there is no twelve-year-old ODs because of character defects. This was a medical problem, and I was encouraged by signs of progress in treating it that way. A documentary about opioids in the area even won an Oscar.
Even with all those factors, it surprised me Rich was wise to the problem. His computer probably had more cobwebs than gigs of RAM. "I'm impressed," I said.
"You're not the only one who can use Google," said Rich.
We settled in behind the van. Thirty minutes and no sign of a stop. We took some roads I was surprised had ever been paved. Rich hung back father on the less-traveled ones. About fifteen minutes later, we approached a small, nondescript town. The van made a left and then pulled into an alley behind a building that was a combination clinic and veterinarian. Get your dog's nails clipped while you wait for your flu shot! I hoped they were more clever in their advertising.
Rich idled the Camaro on the street. We could just see the van around the corner of the building. The driver got out, took the remaining two boxes out of the back, and disappeared. "How many clinics you know use honey?" said Rich.
I shrugged. "Could be some holistic quack in there," I said.
"How many of them you think set up shop in small-town West Virginia?"
"Maybe there's a demand for honey on the vet side of the business."
Rich snorted. "I think they're just delivering straight drugs here," he said.
"I doubt it," I said. "Keeping them in the boxes with honey is important. What if this shithead gets pulled over and a deputy wants to look in the back. 'See, just boxes of honey.' Lot easier to explain than a box crammed full of pills."
"I guess." Rich pulled forward. "Alley looks empty." And it was. It ran more than the length of the building, but other than a Dumpster, the white van was the only thing there. "This is his last stop. We'll need to talk to this asshole here." Rich squeezed past the van and parked the Camaro on the other side of the Dumpster. We got out and walked toward the clinic's back door. I stood on one side, and Rich took the other.
We waited.
***
Muted conversations and chuckles made their way through the heavy back door. In my youth, my friends and I would shout at each other under water in a pool. The water, of course, distorted our voices to inarticulate screams. The voices coming from the clinic reminded me of those days. I fidgeted while we waited. Patience could not be counted first among my virtues. I looked around the alley. Trash lined the walls, increasing in volume nearer the Dumpster. I also saw two broken hypodermic needles and wondered how much more drug paraphernalia blended in too well with the detritus to be obvious.
Rich stared at the door. His right hand waited to grab his gun; his left curled into a fist. In the quiet of the alley, I could hear his measured breathing. In, out. Even. Between Afghanistan and Baltimore, I wondered how many dangerous scenarios Rich willingly walked into. By now, his slow breathing had become automatic in situations like this. I didn't have any routines. I just wandered into danger and figured I would come out okay on the other side. So far, so good.
The voices inside fell silent. Footsteps replaced them, moving closer. The door arced open, toward me, blocking my view. I couldn't see the driver. I heard him start to say something, but then Rich clamped a hand over his mouth and shoved him into the wall. The door clicked shut. The driver's eyes threatened to bulge from his head as they flittered between Rich and me. "Stay quiet," Rich said through clenched teeth. "You make a lot of noise, it won't go well for you. Understand?" The driver nodded. "We want information. Let's start with your name." Rich took his hand away and balled it into a fist. This did not escape the other man's notice.
"Billy," he said in a small voice. Billy looked to be in his mid-twenties, but he spent those years doing some hard living. I figured he'd been sampling the delivery product, maybe even taking part of his pay in something like Vicodin. He stood a hair shorter than Rich, but would only weigh 140 pounds if he'd just gone swimming in his clothes. The color of his skin would encourage a mortician to embalm him. His clothes were at least a size too big. When he talked, I could tell he needed to spend about a week in a dentist's chair.
"Billy, I see you're making some deliveries," said Rich.
"Who are you?" Billy said. Rich showed him his badge. "You ain't even in the right state. Shit, man." Confidence brightened Billy's dull eyes. "I ain't gotta talk to you." He pushed off the wall.
Billy hit the wall again right away when Rich punched him in the face. He took the off-the-clock proviso seriously. I never saw him cuff someone around under these circumstances in Baltimore. Billy shook off the cobwebs and grimaced. "What the hell?" he said.
"I told you," said Rich, "we have some questions. You don't get to walk away until we're done."
After looking between Rich and me some more, Billy accepted his fate and nodded. "What do you want to know."
"Everything," I said. "Let's start with collection and delivery."
"OK. We pick up stuff from people who work on the land."
"How often
?"
Billy shrugged. "Once a week, usually. Sometimes more often in summer. There's more to pick up then."
Growing seasons were not a mystery to me, but I nodded as if Billy said something profound. It seemed to placate him. Then Rich said, "How many guys make the pickups?"
"Five or six."
"They all look like you?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"I think you know what I'm trying to say," Rich said. He crowded Billy, who shrank back into the wall.
"No, no," he said. "Some of them are bigger."
"Like four guys who could play offensive line?" I said.
"Yeah." Billy nodded. "Them, me, sometimes another guy."
"Then what do you do?"
"We take the shit somewhere," Billy said. "Usually the hospital. Sometimes back to base."
"'Base' being Land of the Brave?" Rich said.
"Yeah. Depends where the deliveries are."
"And then you add drugs to whatever you collected," I said.
"We have a guy at each place who does that," Billy said. "They know how to pack everything. If we get stopped, the cops only see honey, or vegetables, or whatever."
"What if they look closer?" Rich said.
"Then they'd find the pills. Shit ain't invisible. But you ain't gonna see it unless you go looking for it."
"OK, you make deliveries," I said. "Places like this, grocery stores, whatever. Then they sell the pills."
"Yeah," Billy said, as if I'd asked him a super obvious questions. And I did, but we needed to confirm the basics.
"Then what happens with the money, asshole? Do you and the no-neck quartet go back and collect it?"
"No. Unless we need to. Then those other four guys go out. Usually, the places just pay. I'm not sure how it works. They don't tell me shit like that.
For good reason, I thought, but I said, "OK, Billy. Just a few more questions."
Before I could ask another one, Rich broke in. "How many places do you deliver to?"