Vengeance Road

by Rick Mofina

  “A metal nail file in my back right pocket.”

  The woman shifted, Jolene got the file. Again, long minutes passed as she used it to slice through the tape around Lee.

  “Okay, listen, Lee. I’ve got a tiny light, but the batteries are weak so I’m saving them. There’s a door that opens inward. I’ve removed half the bolts from the hinges. We need to get out the rest so we can remove the door.”

  “But there’s another door that opens out. I saw it.”

  “I know. I’ve got a plan. Just work with me to hold the light. We have to hurry. We have to do this now, before he stops the truck again.”

  Working in the dim light, Jolene glimpsed Lee’s face, wondering if the fear she saw in it was a reflection of her own.

  “Jolene, there are letters on your forehead. It says GUILTY. Did he do that to you?”

  “Yes. It’s what he does.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means we have to work faster.” Another bolt squeaked loose. “Oh, thank God, this nail file is better than the key. We’re almost done.”

  Gritting her teeth, Jolene worked through the aches shooting through her fingers, wrists and arms. She barely comprehended the true horror they were facing, as if rejecting reality in a futile attempt to convince herself that this was one long nightmare.

  But it was no dream. They were fighting for their lives.

  Adrenaline shot through Jolene when she removed the last bolt.

  Her joy soon died.

  The heavy door was like a slab of granite and did not move. Jolene pried the hinges away from the wall and pulled with every ounce of strength, shifting the door, pulling it ajar but only slightly.

  Lee tried, barely budging the door.

  Jolene worked on the side opposite the hinges, finding knots in the wood that allowed her to hook three fingers against the door’s lip, managing to feel the massive door shift as the truck hit a rough patch.

  Jolene withdrew her fingers in time before they would have been crushed.

  Construction zone.

  “Come on, Lee, pull the hinge. The bumpy road is shifting the door!”

  Jolene seized the upper hinges and both women pulled while the trailer shifted. The door began slipping from its frame, exposing the thick heavily insulated hinged side of their prison.

  “Get out of the way!”

  Jolene shoved with her palms then wedged her shoulder into the crack, forcing the door out of its holding. A loud bang reverberated as it crashed to the floor. The hum of the freeway filled their prison with hope. It streamed in with the light leaking from the frame of the outside door.

  The women cheered and hugged.

  Then Jolene took stock of the outside door, their door to escape.

  “We’re only going to get one chance to save ourselves. Now, this is what we’re going to do….”

  60

  Michael Brent rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

  He was alone in the boardroom at Clarence Barracks waiting for the next case-status meeting.

  Since returning from Kansas he believed they’d dropped the ball. Images of what the killer did to Bernice Hogan and Carrie Fulton were seared in his memory and he seethed with anger.

  He’d put in long hours working every aspect of the murders, Jolene Peller’s disappearance and Karl Styebeck’s involvement. He’d assessed the facts, the evidence and the pieces that were obvious. Then he reassessed them all until he grew embittered.

  Styebeck was the key.

  But Robert “Slam Dunk” Kincaid from the D.A.’s office kept pushing that key further away by demanding they magically produce the “irrefutable” piece of evidence that would make his job easy.

  And apart from Kincaid, they had Jack Gannon in their face.

  Shows up in Kansas. Freakin’ Kansas. At the scene. And before them.

  Gannon was becoming more than a pain in the ass and Brent wanted to know who his sources were. He was unlike any reporter he’d ever met.

  Relentless. And very, very good.

  They were lucky that nothing on the Buffalo-Kansas link got into the press. They needed to keep a lid on it so they could build their case against Styebeck—something Brent felt they’d achieved long ago.

  But not Kincaid.

  Well, somebody better damn well do something fast because the lid on this thing was loose and rattling.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Brent shifted his thoughts as Lieutenant Hennesy, the captain, the sergeant, Roxanne Esko and two other investigators joined him at the table. Hennesy entered codes into the phone and began the call.

  “Hello, everybody,” Hennesy said into the speaker. “We’ll start with a roll call.”

  As the voices of two dozen investigators from Kansas, Illinois, New York and Connecticut made introductions on the line, Esko leaned close to Brent’s ear.

  “Mike, I know you’re pissed off. Take it easy, okay?”

  At that point, Esko felt a soft tap on her shoulder, and a large envelope was set before her by the officer manager. Styebeck’s military records had arrived. Esko had been expecting the delivery and smiled her thanks then set the package aside to study later as Hennesy continued.

  “All right, everyone’s with us,” he said, amplifying his voice. “We’ve got a lot to cover. I’m going to hand off to Roxanne to bring everybody up to speed with her summary.”

  “Hi, everyone,” Esko said. “Everybody should have the basic info sheet that we sent around before the call. We have key fact evidence found at both scenes that confirms Bernice Hogan and Carrie May Fulton were murdered by the same person or persons. We also believe that the disappearance of Jolene Peller is linked to those murders. Peller is still missing. The NCIC file also has details.”

  In both homicides, time of death was estimated at being within twenty-four hours before discovery. Both victims were found in isolated areas, the first in a park, the second at a construction site near the Kansas Turnpike.

  “And note, in the Hogan case, a bus ticket for her friend, Jolene Peller of Buffalo, who is also missing, was found at the site. A unique locket belonging to Peller was later found with Carrie Fulton, the victim in the Kansas case. No other trace of Peller has emerged,” Esko said.

  “In both cases, cause of death was attributed to blood loss and blunt-force trauma. In the first case, injuries were consistent with a weapon having a serrated eight- to ten-inch blade. In the second case, a heavy metal object consistent with a pickax.

  “Both cases are characterized as frenzied overkill,” Esko said.

  “What about DNA, semen, trace?” an investigator asked.

  “Nothing. No indication of any sexual assault.”

  Esko said that both homicides were ritualistic with the victims displayed, indicating an organized killer who sought discovery of his crimes and was likely on a mission or crusade.

  “What about physical evidence at the scene?” a detective asked.

  “We’ve outlined some of it—the locket, the bus ticket. We also have casts of tires that would be consistent with a big rig. That information’s detailed on your sheet.”

  “What about your key fact?” the detective asked. “It’s not on the sheet.”

  “An identical message was left in each case. One that we’re holding back to protect the case.”

  “What about your suspect, Styebeck?”

  Esko shot Brent a look, saw his jaw muscle pulsing.

  “This is Brent,” he said. “I’m the lead on Hogan. Walt Stanton with the Hartford PD has an update on something that was passed to the district attorney here in Buffalo—”

  “Are you talking about my office, Mike?” Robert Kincaid said.

  “Yes, Bob. Your office got it yesterday afternoon. Go ahead, Walt.”

  Kincaid’s muttering could be heard as Stanton updated the group.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Stanton said. “We took the information Mike Brent provided and traced one phone call from Hartford to a residence in a
Buffalo suburb. A call was placed using coins from a public phone at the Rolling Dog Truck Stop, which is located on the other side of the expressway from the Settlers Valley Mall. Carrie Fulton disappeared from the area within the time frame of when the call was placed.”

  “Care to tell us to what number the call was placed?” Brent asked.

  “The residential number for Karl Styebeck.”

  “Can you provide me with some documentation on that?” Kincaid said.

  “Your office has it,” Brent said. “We have e-mail confirmation and a signed receipt for the courier, Bob.”

  “Okay, sorry, found it. I’ve got the information here from Hartford.”

  A long moment of silence passed; Kincaid was reading the material.

  “I think this clearly establishes that Styebeck had some sort of knowledge of the crimes,” Brent said.

  “But Mike, as I said in our previous call, Styebeck cooperated, he surrendered his private records. I’m going to need a lot more before I can do my job.”

  “What more do you need?” Brent let loose into the speaker. “We’ve got his association with the women. We’ve got witness statements. We’ve got Styebeck’s rental at the scene, the locket and the phone calls to his goddamn house. We have waited too long and wasted so many opportunities because of you, Bob.”

  “Mike, settle down,” the lieutenant said.

  “No, I won’t settle down. We’ve been at two scenes. How high does the body count have to get before Kincaid does his job? Huh? Tell us, Bob. Are you protecting somebody?”

  “Hey!” Kincaid shot back.

  “I understand you’re pals with Nathan Fowler, the editor at the Sentinel. I understand his wife is high up the food chain with the Attorney General’s Office. Word is you and Nathan both have some sort of political aspirations or affiliation with charity work Styebeck does. Could be seen as a conflict.”

  “Back off, Brent,” Kincaid said.

  “Still, to take down a cop for murder, you’ve got to have a sure thing, right, Bob? Got to have the old slam dunk. Meanwhile, it looks like we, the brothers in blue, are giving Styebeck, the ‘hero cop,’ a free ride.”

  The tension that followed was diffused by a new female voice.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Kincaid?”

  A grumbled response.

  “Mr. Kincaid, Sheila Carruthers, with the Connecticut Chief State’s Attorney. After reading over the case, I would think Styebeck’s relationship to these women and the facts presented by the detectives demonstrate that Styebeck’s knowledge goes beyond the investigation. You have enough to support an accessory-to-murder charge. You could use that to leverage more information.”

  “Bob?” Brent said. “Everyone has done their job, when are you going to start doing yours?”

  “Mike!” Hennesy said.

  “No, we’ve been busting our humps, going to Chicago, Wichita, now working with Connecticut, gathering evidence piece by piece. I think it’s time for Slam Dunk to get his ass in the game, here.”

  “Robert,” the captain’s stern voice reached out to Kincaid. “Do we have enough to support a charge, or not?”

  Kincaid released a long heavy sigh.

  “In light of the latest information, I would support a charge of accessory.”

  “Very well,” the captain said. “Let’s get the ball rolling and go pick him up. And Mike, everyone, it’s not over yet.”

  61

  Gannon could not find Karl Styebeck’s brother.

  Nothing he’d tried had worked.

  It was difficult because he didn’t have a first name, and now, after some twenty-four futile hours, locating Styebeck’s brother, even his mother, seemed impossible.

  What was it with this family? Didn’t they drive cars, own phones, use credit cards or vote?

  Gannon’s hopes had lifted when he confirmed that they’d owned property in Texas in the 1950s. But it was sold years later and he’d failed to find any updated listings for Belva Styebeck or any other Styebeck.

  Was this a family of ghosts?

  Calls to Huntsville, to Pine Mill, to the school district and county offices, had produced nothing. Either no one remembered, or they didn’t know who he was talking about. “Sure you got the right area? It seems like a long time ago, son,” one county clerk told him.

  Gannon was exhausted.

  His eyes grew heavy but snapped open when his computer ponged. He’d received an e-mail news alert from the service he’d subscribed to with the online edition of the New York Times.

  To keep an eye on the competition Gannon had subscribed to a number of news-alert services, entering several key words from the Hogan, Peller, and now Carrie Fulton, cases.

  The Times had filed a substantial staff-written investigative piece out of Wichita on Carrie Fulton’s case. The thrust of it said police sources across the country confirmed Fulton’s murder was thought to be linked to the ritualistic homicides and vanishings of women from several other states.

  Dammit, had the Times beat him?

  Gannon swallowed and read to the end.

  Okay, the article did not name Buffalo, Bernice Hogan, Jolene Peller, or Karl Styebeck, Alberta or Texas.

  But the Times had put the case on the national stage. It was a hair away from making the link to Styebeck and catching up to him. And if the New York Times was breathing down his neck, other major outlets would be right behind.

  Gannon was going to lose his story. Damn. He ran his hands over his face, feeling his stubble. He had to do something.

  But what?

  He considered flying to Texas, when he realized he’d overlooked going back to Yancy Smith, the local historian in Shade River who’d helped him with Deke Styebeck’s past. Maybe Yancy knew someone in Huntsville who could help.

  He called Smith’s line and a woman answered.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “He can’t talk to you. He’s in the hospital recovering from surgery. This is Marla, his daughter. Can I help you?”

  After Gannon explained, Marla asked him to wait while she flipped through her father’s address book.

  “There are a few people Dad works with on histories in Huntsville. They’re a group of genealogists who’ve lived in that area a long, long time. They know just about everybody and everything about everybody.”

  Marla Smith gave him three names, numbers and rural addresses. He thanked her, made coffee, then made calls.

  Sipping his strong brew, he was encouraged that he was now on the right track. The first number, for Lester Dunphy, went unanswered. The next, for J. T. Pruitt, went to an answering machine. Next, Gladys Howell.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this the Howell residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jack Gannon, calling from New York. I’m a freelance writer and I’m conducting some historical biographic research on the Styebeck family who lived in your area.”

  “Who?”

  “The Styebeck family?”

  “Oh yes, the Styebecks. Heard of them but I don’t recall very much. They kept to themselves. Try Pearl York’s place, she’s lived here longer than us. Want her number?”

  Gannon dialed the number.

  “Hello,” a man answered, and Gannon gave his pitch while hearing what sounded like something sizzling in a pan before the man called, “Ma!” Then the phone was muffled as the man explained, “Some guy from New York.”

  “Yes, hello?”

  Gannon repeated his appeal about the Styebecks to Pearl York.

  “Oh my, yes, Deke and Belva, I think it was. I don’t remember them very well. I think you’d be best to try Lester Dunphy, he’s one of the best in this part of the state.”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  Hanging up, Gannon tried Lester Dunphy’s line again. He pushed his headset tighter when the line clicked and an older man answered.

  “Lester Dunphy?”

  “Yes.”

  Gannon repeated his request, explaining what he was looking for.

>   “Yes, of course, I recall the Styebecks. A shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me, you said you’re a writer?”

  “Yes, a freelance journalist. I’m researching the history of the Styebecks. I understand the family has a tragic history.”

  “I see, right. Well, it’s true. No one really knew what was going on in that family. Deke was part of the execution team at The Walls. Word was he loved his work. Had a zeal for it.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “And no one knew much about Deke’s upbringing. There was talk he’d been adopted by a reverend in Angelina County. I don’t know about that. But when Deke lost his job at the prison for beating a convict, they say he just fell apart. Stories went around that he’d deteriorated and put his family through hell.”

  “Like with drinking?”

  “Not that so much. There were stories, just stories, mind you, that Deke had built an electric chair in his barn, just like Old Sparky at The Walls.”

  “What? Why would he do that?”

  “Nobody knew. The family was so private. After Deke died, Karl, the older boy, moved away. Up north, did a short hitch in the military, I think. Then his brother, Orly—”

  “Hold it, his brother’s name is Orly?”

  “I think it is actually Orion, like the constellation, but he went by Orly. He was a very quiet boy. Not quite right.”

  “What do you mean? Was he violent? Did he hurt people?”

  “Not so far as I know,” Dunphy said. “I can tell you that about a year or so back, I can’t be sure, Orly ended up in a mental hospital or something.”

  “A mental hospital? Where?”

  Dunphy let a long moment go by the way a person who’d said more than they should have wishes the silence to erase what they’d said.

  “I don’t know,” Dunphy said. “You know how people talk.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “I could not tell you. Like I said, it was a rumor and people talk.”

  “What about Belva Styebeck?”

  “Might’ve gone into a home, or moved along. The Styebecks just faded away and no one ever heard of them again. Sorry, son, that’s all I know. But I can ask around, see what I can find out.”