“Arlene, I know you’ve been compiling and coordinating the information as it’s come in, where do we stand?” Sheriff Lupo directed his question to the woman seated directly to his right with laptop computer open, frantically taking notes. Not accustom to having to speak to such a large group of people, she tried to ignore that anyone else was present, and looked directly at her friend ‘The Wolf’ and spoke.
“I wish I could tell you that we know more today than we did a few days ago, but the truth of the matter is, we don’t. The hotline has provided leads but most resulting in dead ends or nut jobs reporting their disgruntled neighbor as The Stalker. We’re checking them as fast as we can but no solid leads yet.” She turned her attention momentarily to the group around the table. “I just want to thank ya’ll for your hard work and for putting up with me calling at all hours of the night. I appreciate your cooperation.” She returned her remarks to the Sheriff, “We were able to get a good casting of the prints left in the backyard of the Criddle woman’s home. Forensics should be able to tell us more on that.”
“Ricky, you in here?” Sheriff Lupo said, looking around the room for the forensics' specialist.
“Yup, right here.” The Sheriff could see a hand sticking up above the heads of the others at the back of the room; they parted as Ricky wiggled his way between them to stand at the end of the table across from the big man. “Yeah, we got a really good impression on the tracks both right and left feet, but we are unable to identify manufacturer or model from the tread.”
Disappointed, 'The Wolf' inquired, “And why is that?”
“Because there ain’t any,” Ricky said, looking around to see if anyone would snicker. “I believe The Stalker filed the tread down to nothing to make it impossible for us to identify them. There is some good news though; we think we can accurately identify the type of file that he used. It’s not your typical file, like you’d use on your lawnmower blade, but a specific type that is used to file down the hoof of a horse when they are being shoed. It’s called a rasp; a farrier would use it to prepare the horse’s hooves before the shoes go on. These are common for the profession and most farmers probably have one but I think it’s quite likely that we’re looking for a country person.”
The room spontaneously erupted with applause and some scattered cheers. “Finally something we can go on!” the Sheriff approvingly said. Good work there Ricky, I can tell you’ve done your homework, well done. Okay, that gives us something to work on, anything further on the shoes?”
“Is it okay to talk about this morning yet?” Ricky asked, “Cause I already got the castings from this morning done and we got a footprint.”
“You got a what?” the large man asked, scarcely believing what he’d just heard.
“I know it’s crazy! We got an actual impression of the guys foot, right foot to be exact. It fits perfectly with what you thought happened last night when we were at the scene. They got home, scared him, and he had to make a hasty exit. We weren’t able to get started with the castings until this morning because of the poor lighting out there but we got some really good ones after the sun came up. Should I go on?” he asked his boss.
“Hell yes, let’s hear it all.”
“Good, so we kind of expected some more of those treadless imprints, which we did find, but even those are different.”
“How so?” the Sheriff asked.
“The sole is a different width and the deflection of the angle from the heel to toe is different than the first pair. Anyway, back to the footprint. Let me tell you what we think he does first. He climbs the fence, all three places had fences if you’ll remember, has his shoes on at this point, then when he gets to the backdoor, he takes them off, maybe he thinks it’s going to be more quiet or something, but he definitely takes them off and leaves them outside on the porch. Last night in his mad dash to get out of there, he doesn’t have time to put them on, so he grabs them, runs to the fence, throws them over along with his stuff and then scales the fence in his stocking feet.”
Ricky Dean was getting more excited as he laid out the work that his team had done that morning, and he’d not gotten to the good stuff yet. He had a hard time not just blurting it out but was enjoying being the center of attention, if only for a moment, in this important investigation. He continued, reminding himself to slow down and make sense, “We know he was in his stocking feet because the fibers we found inside the house match some of those we found stuck on the wood slivers on the fence, black, wool stockings. We’re working on the type of dye now that may give us the manufacturer.”
“Damn good work, Ricky. Your team is giving us some excellent information to go on. About the footprint....”
Ricky jumped in to tell the rest of his findings, “Yeah, this is the best part, I ‘bout pissed myself when I saw it this morning, right there at the base of the fence just as clear as it could be. I think it’s where he stood to throw the stuff over, cause he would have come to a complete stop, for just an instant, before he hurled the stuff over, and in doing so put enough force on the right foot to push it into the dirt.” He stopped talking long enough to demonstrate for the team what he was talking about. Ricky motioned with his hands for the other unit members to part and give him a clear isle. He started from the side of the room, took a couple quick steps as if running, something in both hands, stopped and went through the motion of throwing the items over the imaginary fence. As he demonstrated the motion he explained, “If our perp is right handed he would have stopped short of the fence leading with his left leg and bracing himself with the right. To get enough leverage to throw over something heavy he would shift his weight from the left foot, to the right, and then back to the left, as he followed through with the throw, like this.” Again he confirmed his theory by demonstrating it to those watching. “We got lucky, I think the owner was trying to fix a patch of sparse grass and had put down a little topsoil and seed in that particular area.”
“So we, I mean, the forensic bunch of us, also think he’s right handed,” he smiled, his mustache twitching ever so slightly.
“Outstanding, absolutely outstanding! You’ve earned your pay this week. Is everybody getting this? I don’t see many pens moving take this stuff down. I don’t want anybody out of the loop,” the Sheriff instructed.
Ricky, however, wasn’t done; he still had a couple of important cards up his sleeve to play. “Okay, okay Sheriff, there’s a bit more. So we, so we got the casting of the foot, absolutely perfect, like I said,” he was speaking so fast now that he was tripping over himself.
“Ricky, slow down, for heaven’s sake we’ve got time, just slow down and tell us what you’re trying to say.”
He stopped, put both hands on the table in front of him, and took a couple deep breaths before he continued, “Thanks Sheriff, I’m okay now, I’m okay. So we know he threw the shoes over the fence, right?” He paused, “The forensics God’s were with us last night is all I can think. We got the footprint, you’re gonna love the way that set up, we’ll know exactly the size of his foot right down to his bunions and corns, but we also know he was wearing Nike’s.”
“Ricky!” Deputy Guest interjected, “How the hell can you tell what kind of shoes he was wearing based on the footprint? You’ve already said the tread was no help.”
“This is so good I can’t believe it myself,” he said. “You ready for this? When he tossed the shoes over the fence, the soil on the other side was just moist enough from the humidity that it left an impression where the shoes landed.” He stopped talking and looked around the room for effect. “The bag full of stuff left a pretty big dent where it landed but the shoes, one landed on the sole, so it was no help, but the other landed heel down.” He looked over his shoulder to the back of the room. “Becky, you got that picture we took out at the house this morning, the one from the orchard?”
A stout woman stepped forward taking some papers and pictures from a file folder she held. She quickly rifled through the material and extracted
an 8x10 glossy photograph and handed it to Ricky. Without saying a word he flicked the photograph into the air, it spun, rotating a couple of times before it drifted to a stop in the middle of the large conference table. There, staring back at them was the undeniable impression of the Nike logo, taken from the soft mud, just over the fence of the latest victim’s home.
* * *
The Stalker’s drive from the chapel to his house had been almost as frantic as the run from the orchard. Sheriff units had responded much quicker than he had anticipated, causing him to drive thirty miles out of his way, in a very indirect path to his home. He was happy with the haul and was anxious to see what was hidden in the lockbox, but other than that the ‘outing’ was a total pooch screw. He was angry with his employers for pushing him beyond what he had agreed to do, each job was to be well laid out, planned and methodical, with very little risk. He’d just about got caught last night and was sure there was ample evidence left in the wake of his speedy exit. He wouldn’t be doing another one of those again without talking to ‘the man’ first, the cost of doing business just got more expensive.
‘Rob’ gathered up his things, the shoes, socks, anything that would have left fiber evidence and walked down the trail that led from his house to the fishing shed where the 50 gallon drum was that he used to burn garbage and evidence. Tossing the items in, he doused them with gas and ignited it with the strike of a match. He stood looking into the flames for a moment knowing that he’d have to give it a stir in a few hours and ignite it again with another liberal sprinkling of accelerant. Nothing could be left to chance. Confident that the materials would burn on their own for a time, his attention was drawn back to the strongbox and the unknown contents.
On the way back to the house he stopped by the barn and grabbed a small sledgehammer, perfect for delicate work like he had in mind. There was not another house within earshot so he didn’t worry about the noise when he brought the hammer down on the box for the first time. Crash! The box bounced off the cement slab he was using as a backstop, landing on the grass. “Damn!” He lined up the lock again and repeated the strike directly on the face with the same result, but a bigger bounce. It was much more durable than he had first thought, a third and fourth slam of the sledge did nothing but distort the box’s shape but did not reveal the contents. Frustrated he left the sledge on the ground near the damaged container and headed to the barn. A moment later he returned, pulling a small, portable acetylene torch.
He was careful not to heat up the metal box to the point that paper items inside would ignite but he used the torch in conjunction with the sledge to persuade the assembly to give up its contents. The heavily damaged lockbox finally popped open with one last swing of the hammer.
“Damn, lookie here! What we got?” he said, looking at the items as they gleamed back at him. It was obvious to him that the wife kept the good stuff under wraps and hidden away but the old man had some nice things too. Two Rolex cases sat at the bottom of the chest but only one contained a watch. He continued his search undiscouraged. Lying underneath the watchcases and the gems was a rectangular package, folded and wrapped like a Christmas present, but in newspaper. Rob’s hand shook in anticipation. He gently laid the other items aside and pulled the bundle from the bottom of the box. He had hoped a gold brick but much too flexible. Taking the tape from the bottom of the parcel, he uncovered a pile of US $100 bills almost too thick to hold in one hand. The thief, in all his years of taking what was not his, had never encountered such an awesome prize. Returning the items to the box he went inside and began counting, 700, 725, 750, and placed the last, crisp bill on the table. He sat back in one of the chairs, ran his fingers through his dark hair, while staring at the eight small stacks of hundreds that he had organized on the table.
“Who in the hell, keeps $75,000 in cash in their desk drawer?”
The first thing that came to mind was the mob. Maybe a drug dealer, but after much self-debate he decided he’d found somebody’s stash, money the private citizen did not want to declare to Uncle Sam for tax purposes. Most likely he wouldn’t report it to the police either. That would create all kinds of questions from the IRS, the jewelry would be replaced by the insurance so he didn’t feel the least bit bad about that, he never did. The money, however, gave him a boost in self-confidence and made him think that perhaps the risk had paid off. Anyway, wouldn’t be long before he’d be cashed out and on his way.
“Should have spent one of these hundreds having the box properly installed, jackass!” he said, mocking the absent victim. “I’m making a call but they ain’t gonna hear about this cash,” he laughed to himself, as he retrieved the untraceable phone from his jacket, dialed and waited.
“Lester, what’s up my friend?” Felix was in an especially good mood after the reports of the morning. “Your work last night was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, could not have done it better myself.”
“Yeah, I know, that’s why you hired me, remember?” Lester responded. “I thought we weren’t supposed to use our real names in our correspondence, even on the phone?”
“Pshaw, that Jeremy, he’s wound so tight he farts diamonds. There's not going be anybody listening to this conversation. These phones are solid don’t worry about it. Have you given any thought to where you’ll hit next? One more this week will put us over the top, my man.”
“Why was this guy talking like we’re best friends? I probably wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t a friend of a friend of an acquaintance but we ain’t friends,” he thought, but did not say. “I’ve got a couple ideas for tomorrow but I’m laying low today. Too much police activity to be out, especially if somebody ID’d my van in the area.”
“I see from the reports that you were able to search the place for valuables. Come up with anything?” Felix asked, expecting a cut if there was anything of significance.
“Naw, not really, a couple necklaces and a watch but I think it’s a Chinese knock off,” Lester said, keeping the money, gun and valuable jewelry to himself.
“Too bad, would have been more worth the risk, I guess. I’m meeting with the other guys tomorrow to see where we go from here, but you’re doing great. I’ll report that to them,” the low level wise guy indicated.
“Okay, but I feel like I should be brought up to speed on where this is all headed, I get the fact that you want the people in that area to panic and have it affect the real estate market but there has to be a bigger picture. I just feel that I should be brought in, you know have a bigger piece of the pie,” he said, trying to feel his way through the conversation. “Like who is this Jeremy guy, what has he got to do with anything? That’s the first I’ve heard you even mention his name.”
“Jeremy who? You didn’t hear me say anything about any Jeremy. I’ve said enough, just keep doing your job and don’t get greedy,” Felix indicated, getting a bit annoyed with the thief.
“Okay, okay, hold your horses, I get the picture, but let me tell you this all stops right now if I don’t see another 5 G’s in that envelope dropped in my mailbox tomorrow. You understand? And don’t YOU get greedy. I’m the one assuming all the risk! I’m the one creating the panic! Without me you got nothing! You hear me? You got that, Felix?” Lester exaggerated his inflections into the small cell phone mouthpiece and promptly clipped it closed. “If that money isn’t there tomorrow I’m done, I’m done,” he said, tossing the phone on the table, knocking bills everywhere.
* * *
Mrs. Ella Wild was exhausted. The Wednesday evening self-defense class the night before had been more than she or her husband had counted on. There were too many people to work with in one session, so they ended up having most of the newcomers wait until the first class was over, then taught it all over again to everyone that had patiently waited, which was significant. The majority of those present were women and most of those spurred on by the recent activities of the predator. Pink and her husband, Dave, understood the insecurities and fears of those they taught so they were h
appy to help, but it had taken its toll. Ella ached in every joint and the pain medication taken with breakfast had not fully kicked in yet. Standing before her students she struggled to stay focused and hoped the class would be able to carry the discussion so she didn’t have to.
She had not had time to review and mark the assignment given out a few days before but she was impressed with the dozen she had evaluated. “I take it many of you are quite interested in the recent events north of the city?” she said, more as a question than a statement. “I’m intrigued. Why is that? Why would you be so interested in the acts of a degenerate and the suffering that he causes? Granted, I sort of get it, after all this is the Deviant Behavior Course, but I think it goes beyond that. I think for many of you it’s like a train wreck, you just can’t help yourself, you just can’t help but having to look. Am I right?” No one volunteered an answer; afraid they might get their head taken off with the mood she seemed to be in this morning.
“While you are sitting there trying to decide if you have the courage to answer, let me say this, I love it, to a degree that is. I hate the pain and suffering these people cause, the loss of life, the uncertainty they create, the fear they instill, but I love studying their deviant minds and what it is about them that makes them tick. It is people like you and me that have the capacity within us to stop these beasts and bring them to justice. That’s why I teach this course. That’s why I push you to learn more than I know. To understand them in ways that I cannot, you need to be better than I ever was. I believe some of you will get there and make me proud, and the rest of you, well, the world needs ditch diggers too, my dad always used to say.”
This drew some laughter from the uneasy students, but those who connected with her on the level she intended, knew she was talking to them, Seymour Wood was one of them. Most of the students had seen the news that morning and were curious what Pink would do with the story during class today.
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