Murder at Willow Slough

by Josh Thomas

  “It would give you time to sort out any other assets you might have. You wouldn’t have to worry, with several hundred thousand in the bank.”

  “Thank you, sergeant. With all the horror of this day, you’re the best news I’ve had.”

  “Good luck, ma’am, we’ll go now. Best wishes to your family.”

  “Thank you, sergeant, thanks so much.”

  They left. Slaughter chuckled as he got into the squad car. “Get me to a doctor.”

  “Why’s that?” Kent asked, driving smoothly away.

  “I just developed sugar diabetes. Jeez, the broad even thanked you.”

  “Brown County has doctors,” Kent grinned.

  But so does Shawnee Hospital. His heart equatored. He phoned in for a report. Jamie was still unconscious, to be transferred tomorrow to IU Hospital’s rehab unit, Coma Central.

  ***

  Brown County recorder, judge, warrant, and bingo: snuff films. Mutilations. Castrations on CD-ROM. Dismemberments. Contact lists, financial records, Internet footprints. Pictures of Carson’s own daughter being raped at three years old.

  It wasn’t news to Kent that people could be evil; only in how they went about it. But this was as bad as it could get, worse than he’d ever seen.

  He wondered again what kind of man Jamie was, to have unearthed all this. ***

  Finally the sadness and exhaustion hit. He had a listless supper back at the hospital with his Mom, who brought suits and casual clothes. He listened to her advice about laundry. “If you wouldn’t let your dirty clothes build up so much, they’d be easier to handle, whether you wash them yourself or bring them to me. I don’t mind doing it, son, but eight or ten loads is a lot for anyone.”

  He let her do her Mom thing, even took comfort in the mundanery of washday woes. “Thanks for bringing my stuff. Looks like I’m going to be down here for awhile. Could be weeks.”

  “Then I’ll come down every night with food. You give me washing to take back, just don’t let it build up.”

  “Mom, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. How’s the victim?”

  “Holding his own.” Kent shrugged at the handy phrase that meant not dead yet.

  “Let go and let God, son.”

  He figured he deserved a cliché back.

  She too tried to comfort a hurt that wouldn’t go away. Finally, thanking her, he told her he was tired. “I know, I can see it in your eyes. Get some sleep, son. I’ll be back tomorrow night.” He kissed her, thanked her, told her not to worry, he’d be all right. They hugged and he went upstairs to Jamie, to sit in a chair all night, to sleep with him on the world’s worst camping trip.

  ***

  He couldn’t sleep, though. Partly it was the chair, no position that felt halfway right. Mostly it was the situation, sitting with the body of a spirit he ached for, with no way of knowing whether he’d ever know the guy again.

  At something past five it happened. The famed TV preacher, eyes ecstatic and advertisers lined up, had Jamie strapped to an electric chair, finger on the button, some wacko-sermon about Armageddon, the fall of the Soviet Union, America’s moral decline, the Year 2000, all prophesied in Revelation and all Jamie’s fault; and Kent was present as a police witness to the execution, armed and in uniform ’cause his Mom ironed his shirts; and he had his duty weapon and wanted to fire at the preacher, keep him from doing it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his gun out of the holster, it was stuck, dried blood, and the preacher fingered the lever, and Kent wanted to shout, “No, never,” as the preacher smiled, “Two minutes to frytime.”

  Kent woke up drenched in sweat, and there, in the little room in intensive care, lay Jamie and the ventilator, wihh, hooh, wihh, hooh, wihh.

  41

  Miss Davis’s Nominations

  At his office the next day, Major Slaughter said, “The pictures are ready. Can you handle it? It’s okay if you can’t, they’re traumatic.”

  Kent steeled himself. “Of course I can handle it. I’m an Indiana state trooper.”

  They went to an evidence room. There were stacks of carefully-inventoried photographs, topped by printouts. In the corner was a big screen TV with state-of-the-art clarity. George popped in a videocassette. “The camera on Jamie’s left, Crum’s, has the best angle on the action.”

  Kent took a seat. “Pornographic pigs.”

  “Great evidence, though. Tape your crime, show us every detail.”

  “Let’s put them all on Death Row.”

  “The only issue’s going to be sentencing, so the prosecutor’s focusing on that.”

  “Sir, have you heard what we’re getting from the home searches? Gary Tompkins has positively identified Mr. Ferguson’s clothes and wedding ring found at Ford’s house. Gary wears an identical ring. Perfect match.”

  “It’s everything but the smoking gun. And there’s a new lead just in. Kent, Crum’s got the smoking gun. We just never knew where he hid it. Jamie helped with the psychology of that years ago, and Schmidgall’s lawyer in Chicago. We may be able to close out the entire shebang, not just Ford’s 13, but Schmidgall’s 21 and maybe others.”

  “Tell me Jamie and the psychology, chief.”

  “He was at Crum’s trial years ago when Schmidgall accused him of participating in Barlow’s murder. Jamie believed every bit of Schmidgall’s testimony, found the Gay part completely credible. The words Schmidgall used on the stand, how they picked up the victim— Jamie said a Gay jury would have convicted Crum in ten minutes.

  “Jamie observed him throughout, his body language, clothes, where his eyes went, what he smiled at and got nervous over, everything. He’s a very nervous man.”

  “Jamie’s a trained observer.”

  “The picture he put together we’ve now confirmed. We’ve got a real compulsive freak here. Crum took constant notes all through that trial. He’s obsessive about keeping records—and now we may get proof. There may be computer documents on some or all of these cases. Financial records, diary entries, pictures.”

  “Jamie’s cover story when Schmidgall died and his lawyer had that news conference—does that have anything to do with this?”

  “Sure does. There’s a line in there he emphasizes, coming from the lawyer.”

  “‘I Know Who You Are.’ He’s looking for those records.”

  “She says, ‘Even if it’s after you’re dead, we want those records. We have a right to them.’ Jamie’s account makes that front and center, when every other reporter emphasized the sensational admission.”

  “Jamie’s speaking directly into Crum’s ear. Imagine the responsibility of that.”

  “Pressuring him. Making the freak nervous.”

  “What was our break today, chief?”

  “We found a store clerk in Eastwood, an all-night copy shop.”

  Kent looked at George. “He rented the computer! As many times as we’ve raided his house and office, he knew not to keep anything there.”

  “He goes in at the deadest time of night. Most of the computers are set up in carrels where anybody in the store can see what’s on the monitor. But there’s one little space off to the side where no one else can see. That’s the one he used. If it was busy, he’d come back another time. He’d sit at his carrel, and the clerk said he’d laugh a lot. Except not really laughter, more like heh-heh-heh.”

  “Enjoying himself,” Kent spat.

  “Here’s the good part. When he was done, he would always buy a diskette mailer. The store does shipping too. He’d address his package, pay his bill in cash, get his receipt and leave. He always got a receipt.”

  “What address?”

  “Clerk could rattle it off from memory. It’s Crum’s parents in St. Pete.”

  A chill went down Kent’s back. “Subpoena.”

  “On its way.”

  “Yes!” Kent pumped his fist. “That’s fantastic.”

  George sang, “Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s ho
use we go.” They laughed together. “As soon as we get the paperwork from the judge, you’re jumping a plane to Florida. Commander, you’ll be the one who finds the smoking gun.”

  “Thank you, chief. Gosh, I don’t know what to say.”

  George put his hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I know you hate to leave Jamie. But he’s not going anywhere. And this is important, Kent. I want you out of here for a couple of days. It will do your mind good, son. We just go in, load up all the evidence, and come back after you’ve spent two days on the beach on paid time off. The hospital will notify you of any change in Jamie’s condition. We’ll sort the evidence back here, and you supervise that. You can still spend all the time you want with Jamie. But life goes on, and where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  They looked at the video. Slaughter used a pointer to describe the action. When Jamie broke free and started fighting, Kent stared. “Look at that! Man, he’s fighting hard. Boom, down goes another one. Look at how strong he is!”

  Minutes later Jamie was recaptured, and Kent soberly asked for Rewind. They watched the fighting again, then George moved them on to the stabbing. “We have an audio record of everything they said. See this bulge in his back pocket? Looks like a pack of cigarettes, but it’s his voice recorder. By itself the tape’s enough to convict.”

  “Jeez, little man. Always thinking.” Kent recoiled as he watched Ford put his slimy body on Jamie’s pristine one. “God, look at that. It’s like rape!”

  “But as soon as it starts, Jamie uses it to his advantage. He tries to turn Ford against Crum, get him to run away with him.”

  “Seduction, you mean? Divide and conquer?”

  “He’s extremely persuasive. He tries to turn them on so they’re more interested in sex than murder.”

  “Man, how did he think of that? My skin would have been crawling.”

  “He offers to take Ford to Mexico with him, gives him some very good incentives.”

  “Look at that, it makes me want to puke. I guess getting stuck with one killer’s better than facing thirteen, though. God, that’s disgusting!”

  “Right here, Crum puts a stop to it by drawing his gun. Otherwise Jamie would have had him.”

  “That little sissygun. Jeez, Jamie, you told me you had other weapons. Now I know what you meant.”

  “He used up an awful lot of time, Kent.”

  “Minutes that enabled us to get there.”

  George hit Pause,held his sergeant’s shoulder again.“There’s one other thing, son, we know it from his audio. Jamie knows you’re coming.”

  Kent looked up sharply. “Really?”

  A shiver crawled down Slaughter’s spine. He hit Play. “He not only predicts the outcome, exactly as it happened; he calls you by name. These are his exact words. ‘Kent’s coming. You’ll be dead.’ Remember that, son.”

  “I will. Oh, Jamie.” Kent straightened. “I will, sir. Thank you very much.”

  Then Kent got to watch the play-by-play of Jamie being whipped and finally stabbed. Kent rubbed his face, his voice went wooden. “He must never see this. Never.”

  “With guilty pleas we’ll be able to seal it for life. Won’t even have to show it in court. He’ll never know.”

  “He’d be devastated. It’s devastating to me.” Kent covered his eyes.

  George held him, “How are you sleeping?”

  “Nightmares. They’ll be worse now.”

  “How about eating?”

  “Mom takes care of me. Chief, I can always eat. It’s no fun but I do it, and it helps to have her food. We eat together. My Mom’s the greatest.”

  “Are you working out?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s a help. Guess I’m working out for both of us now, since he can’t do it. But I want you to know, as tough as this thing is, I’m all right. I’m not damaged goods, sir. I’m real emotional about it, but I’ll get through it. Even if he dies, I got to know him for two weeks.” Kent fought back tears. “I got to care about the man.”

  “I liked what you said earlier. ‘Of course I can handle it, I’m a state trooper.’ That’s the right attitude, son. It’s exactly what I expected of you. This is a terrible time, but I have nothing but confidence in you. Are you talking to the counselors?”

  “Chaplain. It’s in God’s hands, ya know? I’ve seen the shrink once. But who helps the most is Doc Helmreich. He knows first-hand what officers go through. And it don’t bother him about… Gay people. Doc knew Rick. And he really respects Jamie. I’m so glad Jamie got me to pull Doc into this. He’s been important.”

  George knew. He’d been lobbied too.

  When the shootout footage was over, Kent said, “They’ve all got reservations at the Hotel Death Row.”

  “Damn right. Now Kent, listen up: by befriending Jamie, getting in tight with your CI, you carried out my orders when we met here that night. I asked for the killer’s head on a platter. That’s exactly what you gave me. And that is why, sergeant, you face no disciplinary action by this department. I’ve reviewed it, like you asked. Instead of disciplinary action, I’ve nominated you for Trooper of the Year.”

  Kent’s brown eyes looked at him, trying to take it in. “But I let him out of my sight.”

  “Shit happens,” Slaughter muttered. “Reagan got shot. You think they fired the Secret Service? They didn’t. Faced with a shooter, it was the Secret Service that saved Reagan’s life. It’s an exact parallel, Kent. You saved the man’s life.”

  Kent let out a huge sigh. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You solved a serial murder ring that’s eluded us for fifteen years. It’s not like you to think so negatively. The only reason you’re beating yourself up is because you have feelings for your informant. You have to create a new mental file to analyze this correctly. If it were any other CI, sure, we’d all feel terrible, but we’d also recognize that he was a fully responsible team member who knowingly put himself at risk and paid a price. Suppose it was an officer who went down. There’d be five hundred police cars at the man’s funeral, bagpipes, the works. But there hasn’t been a funeral yet.

  “Son, I’m not telling you not to feel. I’m telling you to have, in addition to your feelings, some professional detachment.”

  Kent had to think, but he knew the major was handing him a big puzzle piece. “You’re right, sir. I’ve been lax, huh? I’m sorry.”

  “Your reaction is completely normal, son. Any officer in your situation would need that reminder. You haven’t been lax, you’ve been torn apart. Who wouldn’t be, for Chrissake?” Hell, I fell for him too, years ago.

  “You’re a tremendous man, major. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  “Kent, it’s so good to work with you. One thing more. You’ve said you study every week for your lieutenant’s exam. Saturday nights, isn’t it? Saturday nights, when everyone else is out getting loaded and trying to get laid, there you are, studying to improve in your profession. Man, I want you to take that exam next spring; I want you to pass it. I want you promoted. I want you the youngest lieutenant in State Police history.”

  Kent suppressed his emotion; asked if he could see the footage where Jamie fought back one more time.

  Slaughter rose,clapped him on the back and said, “Once.Then you’re dismissed.” He left, dimmed the lights, closed the door so his sergeant could be alone.

  ***

  The most important thing on that video to Kent wasn’t the evidence, it was Jamie’s getting aggressive; how well he fought back.

  It even almost turned Kent on. He didn’t understand it, just felt it, with instant pangs of guilt; maybe the combination of sex and violence can stir Cro-Magnon feelings in anyone. He wouldn’t watch the whipping; once was too much, he felt every blow. It was Jamie’s fighting back that enthralled him.

  Jamie’s mind; Jamie’s body. Kent allowed himself to feel turned on.

  Pure, strong, masculine beauty.

 
The beauty was overwhelming. That was what a man should look like. That was how a man should act.

  Nothing is more attractive than physical courage.

  Dominating them all, an alpha male. Fighting back, it’s nature’s way. Pow, bad guy! Bet that one hurt!

  Against all odds, against thirteen ruthless killers, the gun-hating Gay guy fought back.

  42

  St. Pete

  At 6 a.m. the next day, before schoolchildren stirred, Kent drew his duty weapon, pounded on the door, aimed. Lights were on; an old lady came. Kent let her see the weapon and said, “Mrs. Crum?”

  She saw twenty other officers behind him, weapons drawn. She looked scared, surprised, but not quite.

  “Sgt. Kent Kessler, Indiana State Police, with a warrant to search your house.”

  “A warrant? Herman? Herman, get in here.”

  “A warrant, valid in the state of Florida, which I now present you with. We’ve got your house surrounded. Does Herman have a weapon?”

  Herman Crum appeared, yawning in his pajamas with no weapon. Kent said, “Ma’am, please admit us. It’s the law. You must admit us. Please let us in.”

  She opened the door wider. “What do you want? Is my son all right?”

  Kent stepped in. “Ma’am, you know exactly what we want. It’s all detailed on the warrant. Computer diskettes, videotapes, CD-ROMs, photographs, paper records, checkbooks, anything belonging to or relating to your son. He’s all right, we’ve got him on suicide watch.

  Please sign here. By signing you are stating that you have been served

  with this warrant and you admit us to the premises.”

  “Oh, my poor Randy.”

  Kent snorted. His poor victims. “Ma’am, sign here.”

  She did. Kent noted the date and exact time, gave her a copy, pocketed the paperwork, motioned his team in. They holstered their weapons, hauled in boxes, garbage bags, equipment, fanned out to every room. St. Petersburg P.D. let George, Harvey and Bulldog in the patio door. Jack, Phil and Barry Hickman came in from the carport. “Now ma’am, you have a choice,” Kent said. “We will search every inch of your home. We’ll dig up your yard if we have to, we’ll rip open your upholstery. It’s your choice.