Atlanta Police, the Georgia State Highway Patrol, and the FBI are undertaking a massive manhunt for two men wanted in connection with a Christmas Eve hijacking of an armored car, the killing of three Wells Fargo employees, and the theft of cash and bearer bonds from the Federal Reserve Bank in Atlanta.
According to a spokesman from the Atlanta Police Department, at 7:30 a.m. yesterday, two men armed with automatic weapons stopped a Wells Fargo van on Route 7, blocking the road with their vehicle. A gunfight ensued and two guards were killed. A third guard was taken to Northside Hospital in Atlanta where he later died. The names of the dead are being withheld pending notification of relatives.
The police believe the armed hijackers drove the armored truck to a wooded area north of Hartwell and removed five cash bags containing large denomination bills and negotiable bearer bonds valued at an estimated $24 million.
Police were first alerted to the hijacking of the truck and the murders when a passerby saw the third guard crawling along the highway and took the man to the hospital, where after giving a statement to police, he died of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach.
Which in itself made no connection, but another hit—this one from the pages of the Raleigh News and Observer, dated the next day—did.
ARMED ROBBERY/MURDER SUSPECT KILLED IN SHOOTOUT WITH HIGHWAY PATROL OFFICER
One of two men being sought in Georgia for last night's multimillion dollar robbery of the Federal Reserve Bank in Atlanta and the murder of three armored car guards, was shot to death last night by a North Carolina highway patrolman.
According to a Highway Patrol spokesperson, Officer Harold Gettis of Fayetteville, a twenty-year veteran of the Patrol, had stopped a car being driven by the suspect along Route 123 east of Lake Keowee for speeding.
When Gettis, who was alone in his own vehicle, approached the suspect's car, the suspect drew a weapon and exchanged several shots with the officer.
The suspect, whose identity is yet to be determined, was killed during the exchange of gunfire. Officer Gettis was slightly wounded also.
Three Federal Reserve bags containing a large amount of cash were found in the trunk of the suspect's car.
The second man wanted in connection with the robbery and homicide remains at large, and the remaining cash bags are still missing.
Reading this second article gave me a shudder of excitement, as if I were on the verge of knowing something important.
But sitting there thinking about it, all I knew that I knew was that Crash Steensen had been using an old cash bag, which may or may not have been the fourth bag taken in an armed robbery fifteen years ago, that he'd hung himself in Harold Gettis's jail, and that this was all ancient history.
So I didn't get too excited.
I just walked back to the Congaroo, trying to make up my mind what, if anything, to do next, and decided to see Gettis.
I grabbed the old money bag from my room and drove to the police station.
Where I caught the man, just as he was on his way out.
"Figured to see you today,” he told me with resignation, as we again took seats in his office. “I heard about what happened at The Last Chance last night."
"I'm sorry about that,” I said.
"I'm sorrier than you, Mr. Virginiak. Carl Mongon is havin’ a hard time right now, and everybody's his target, one way or another."
"It's all right,” I assured him, then I handed him Steensen's bag.
"What's this?” he asked, looking it over.
"See what's stenciled on the side?” I said.
He squinted, held it away, then put his glasses on, read it, and said, “I'll be damned."
"This bag was probably one of those taken in an armored car robbery fifteen years ago,” I explained. “I read about it at the library."
"And just where did you get it?"
"Steensen's cabin,” I told him. “He was using it to store his stash."
"Hmmph,” he said, turning the bag around.
"I also read that you killed one of the men involved in that robbery."
"I surely did,” he agreed. “That was back when I was Highway Patrol. My last week, in fact, before I took the job here. Pulled him over ‘cause he was doin’ double the speed limit up on Route 123.” Gettis shook his head in mild amazement. “Damn fool just started pluggin’ away at me."
"The second man was never found."
"That's right,” he said, then frowned it over. “You thinkin’ that the body your friend said he found was that second man?"
"It's possible. Steensen got this bag somewhere, and he said he'd found a body."
"Huh."
"And I found a map he'd drawn."
"Gerry Matini faxed me this,” he said, showing me his copy of the map and pointing to it. “That's all swampland,” he told me. “Never heard of no cave up in there."
"Might be worth a look,” I offered.
"You're probably right,” he agreed, “but I kind'a got my hands full at the moment. That hurricane ain't actin’ right, and I gotta be close by in case it shifts on us."
I nodded. “Well, I've got nothing on my hands at the moment, Chief Gettis,” I shrugged. “I think I'll give it a look myself. At least, see if I can find the cave."
"Fair enough,” he said easily. “Mind you're not in the swamp when that damned hurricane hits."
So that's what I did. Instead of leaving Bayette, I headed back into the swamp.
Not for any reason easy to explain, but something along the line of connecting the final dots of Steensen's life. Making some sense of it. Something like that.
In any case, I went.
But, rather than take the route Steensen had outlined on his map, a trail he'd marked to show the way he'd taken from his cabin, through the swamp, and along the creek to the cave, I got in the truck and drove east, out of Bayette, toward the ocean on Highway 10, paralleling his route just to the north.
The sky was darkening, but the radio still reported Amanda bearing to the northeast, and there was no rain, so I didn't anticipate a weather problem—and all I really wanted to do just then was verify the fact that the cave was there.
I mean, what could go wrong?
But about a mile from the shore, the road ended, curving south and becoming little more than a muddy path, which dissolved itself into an endless swamp, where I stopped.
According to Steensen's map, the creek ran southeast at this point, but there was a hilly section of land that blocked my view, so I got out and, seeing a fairly dry trail that snaked out through the swamp, decided to walk it. I grabbed a flashlight because it was getting darker by the minute, and started in.
And I didn't like the look of the sky, which resembled a black mass of swirling fudge, tinged with red. To the southeast, where Amanda was throwing a fit, the sky was just dead black—but it wasn't raining yet, so I kept on.
I got to the base of a rocky, black-mudded, gnarl-treed hill, and skirted around it to the south, where I could see the swollen creek through the mangrove. More like a river, at the moment, running hard and high. I made my way down closer to it and stood there on the bank, took out the map again, studied it, turned it, turned myself, looked up, swung the flashlight around—and saw the cave.
About halfway up the mud hill was a dark hole, the opening as big as a refrigerator door on its side.
And then it started to rain. Hard.
So hard that in just seconds I was soaked through.
And I was just thinking to get myself the hell out of there because Amanda wasn't bearing northeast at all, but damn well right down on me, when I heard the first bang of the rifle.
It came from somewhere in the swamp behind me. I froze, wondering who would be hunting what in the middle of a hurricane. I then heard a second shot that spanged off a rock by my feet, and I knew.
I moved as fast as I could, up over the rocks and into the ankle-deep ooze of the side of the hill. I got ten feet from the cave opening when I felt a hammer hit m
y left shoulder, and I was down, face first in the mud.
Feeling dazed, but sufficiently afraid, I didn't kid around. I got my feet under me again and scrambled the rest of the way to the cave and inside—just as two more shots hit the ground behind me.
Lying in mud, just inside the cave opening, I was safe, for the moment, or so I told myself. My arm was numb with pain and I needed a breather, but reason came shouting down at me that I was just lying in a hole waiting for some killer to show up and finish the job.
So I moved farther into the pitch-dark cave.
Which got a bit bigger—enough so I could stand, but when I did, my head hit a tangle of roots. I crouched again and moved on, thinking there might be a back door, but with little hope of that.
Little hope of anything, in fact, but what could I do?
More shots rang out that came from the cave opening, and I went flat again, on my back, pressing myself into the mud. Whoever it was, was firing blind, but he could get lucky, so I made myself a part of the cave floor and wall.
Heard the wind and rain start sounding like a runaway train.
Heard a couple more shots, which hit I don't know where.
Pressed myself deeper into soft, wet earth.
Heard another shot that brought some mud down into my face.
And then he got lucky.
Not that lucky. It was only a nick in my scalp above my right ear, but my lights went out, and I was down for the count.
About twelve hours’ worth because it was after four a.m. the next morning when I did the God-my-head-hurts and where-am-I thing.
It was completely dark, and I was lying in six inches of water under a waterfall. As I felt around for my flashlight, I had the sense that the cave had gotten smaller while I was away—and when I found the flash and flicked the light on, I could see why.
The pounding rain above was melting the walls of my little hole, and they'd soon simply flow together. I decided I didn't want to be around for that; I'd take my chances with my would-be killer outside.
But then I saw a bone-hand reaching out from the wall.
A hand connected to a wrist, to the rest of a skeleton. It was half in, half out of the wall, and draping the remains were two black, rotting—empty—cash bags.
It was the body Steensen had found.
It was the remains of the second man in the armed robbery of the Atlanta Federal Reserve.
The one who “got away."
And there was a hole the size of a half dollar in the middle of his forehead, and there was something attached to his wrist that wasn't a watch.
But before I could give this any thought, the body in the wall began to sag outward as the whole cave started to sink around me.
So I got out of there despite the hurricane, and got back to my truck and made my calls—and then I waited.
And it took time because Amanda had hit hard and everyone was busy at other things.
But it all worked out.
I was standing outside my truck, still nose down in a ditch, around five p.m., when Gettis pulled up beside me and got out.
And because of the blood on my face and shirt, and my muddy-wet look, he stared and said, “The hell happened to you?"
"Long story."
He looked over the condition of my truck, then waved me to his Jeep. “Can worry about your ride later. We better get you to a hospital."
So I got in, and he started us toward town, saying, “You been lookin’ for that cave?"
"Got shot at,” I told him.
He looked amazed. “Somebody shot you?"
"That's right."
He thought that over, then said, “You think Mongon?"
"No,” I said. “Not Mongon."
He gave me a questioning look.
"I found the body, Chief. I found the body of the second man in that armored car robbery."
Gettis stared at me.
"I found the other two empty cash bags."
He looked back at the road.
I said, “I found that body, Chief, and he was wearing handcuffs."
"Handcuffs?"
I waited until he glanced at me again, then said, “You know a good lawyer?"
"What do you mean?"
I only looked back at him.
He shook his head and laughed. “I don't know what the hell you're talkin’ about..."
"Must have been a hell of a night,” I said.
He frowned.
"Routine stop of a speeder,” I explained, “turns into a shoot-out—turns into a life-changing event."
He tried looking mystified, but he couldn't keep it up.
I shook my head at the futility of his denials. “You know what forensics can do these days, Chief. That body had a hole in its skull in front, and no exit wound, so the bullet is still in there—and they'll know it came from your gun—the one you used on his partner."
Gettis took a bit of lower lip between his teeth.
"They might even be able to trace the handcuffs and—there's the money. I mean, you had to have done something with that money, and they'll track it down..."
"You're crazy!"
"I'm not crazy, Chief, and you're done."
He thought about it, but there was too much certainty in me, so he pulled his gun from its holster with his left hand, and held it on his lap.
Right, I thought.
"Jesus Christ,” Gettis laughed. “I forgot clean about those handcuffs.” He shook his head. “God's truth, I havn't given them a damn thought in all these years.” He gave me a can-you-believe-this look. “I am some criminal mastermind."
I said, “Are you pointing that gun at me, Chief?"
He snorted. “And you are right. It was one hell of a night."
Gettis turned us off Route 64, onto a small road that headed us toward the river.
"So what happened?” I said.
"What happened,” he echoed vaguely.
I waited.
"What happened was,” he went on, “they shot me, I shot back. Killed one, and nicked the other.” He looked at me and snorted. “Handcuffed him."
"Uh-huh."
He sighed and put his eyes back on the road. “And then he started talkin’ about money, and makin’ me rich if I let him go.” He shrugged. “Money was in the trunk,” he said, with a disbelieving head shake. “I could not believe it."
"Where are we going, Chief?"
Gettis frowned hard. “I'd never done a dishonest thing in my whole life until that night—but—lookin’ at all that money, the idea just—come into me—you know?"
"You killed him."
He kept the frown in place for a moment, then said, “I killed him. Buried him out on the bog.” He laughed shortly. “Where he'd never be found.” He shook his head. “I belong in the Bad Guy Special Olympics, I surely do."
"Where are we going, Chief?” I asked again.
He looked at me with some regret. “Cross the river,” he told me sadly. “You can get it now or later. It's up to you."
I decided later.
I said, “And Steensen?"
Gettis sighed. “Right,” he said. “Steensen."
"You killed him too."
He didn't deny it.
"Thing is,” he told me, “you get old, and you get more scared of things. The way he was talkin', I knew he'd found that body, and he wasn't gonna let it go, and sooner or later he'd talk to somebody who'd listen. I couldn't handle the idea of prison.” He looked at me again. “Still can't,” he added with meaning.
"So you tried to kill me,” I said.
"What else could I do?"
"And now you're going to finish the job?"
"Can't let you talk either."
Right, I thought, and that was that.
"Well,” I told him, “I already have."
He frowned at me, and I showed him the small black microphone I was wearing just under my collar, and said, “What do you think I've been doing all day, Chief?"
At which point, and dead o
n cue, a siren began behind us.
We were just then approaching an ancient-looking bridge. Gettis floored the accelerator, fishtailing the vehicle so that it slammed the rail of the bridge as we started over it.
We were about halfway across the bridge when two state patrol cruisers appeared ahead, blocking the way.
"It's over,” I told him. “It's over!"
But he didn't hear me, and he was past caring.
Past thinking, too, because there was no way out, but he stomped on the brake, put the Jeep in reverse, and swung us around, slamming the back end into the wooden rail. Then he went forward, trying to turn the vehicle around, smashing the front into the opposite rail. Then he turned back again, trying to gain an angle, but this time went too far.
The back of the Jeep went through the rail, and we tilted, front end up.
We held there for a second or two—a very long second or two—then we flipped. Over and down, and hit the river hard.
* * * *
And I was out for a while. The roof of the Jeep collapsed with the impact, and my head had gotten a bang, but I became aware again just as the water rose to cover my face. I got a good deep breath as the river current dragged us down and under and into a black, unforgiving world.
I got my seat belt off and pulled on the door handle, but it was jammed tight, and though I hit it with everything I had, it didn't budge, so I raised my feet—or lowered them in my upside down world—and kicked out at the windshield twice before I felt it give. I managed to slip out of the vehicle just as it hit the soft river bottom.
I turned myself right side up under the hood of the Jeep, my knees sinking into the muck. Hanging onto the steering wheel with one hand because the current was pulling at me hard, I reached back inside for Gettis.
Who was still upside down in his seat, and he was conscious and looking at me.
I couldn't read his eyes, but if I could, I would have seen that the heart had gone out of him.
His seat belt hadn't been on, but when I grabbed for the front of his shirt, he pushed my hand away, and when I reached for him again, he reached up himself and pulled my hand from the steering wheel, and shoved me back.
He wasn't going anywhere.
I tried to grab for the dashboard, but the current had me, and then I saw him smile—a kind of thanks-for-nothing smile—and finally, I was swept away. And he was gone in the dark.
AHMM, Jan-Feb 2006 Page 12