by Joseph Lewis
In a hidden cupboard in Rodemaker’s TV cabinet, Chet and Pete had located a digital recording system. Conveniently, Rodemaker had catalogued and titled the various videotapes of his exploitations. All of it was bagged as evidence, and this evidence, along with his confession, would be used to help convict Rodemaker of the rape and sexual abuse of preteen and teenaged boys. Pete hoped he would serve a life sentence in prison.
“There was a recess in a wall in Cochrane’s condo,” Chet laughed. “I still don’t know how we found it. We were just tapping on walls and stuff.”
“What did you find?” Pete said.
“$350K and three passports; one in Cochrane’s name and two others with his photo, but with different names. A Sig Sauer Pro with two loaded mags, and a burn phone. I gave the number to Billias, and he’s monitoring it just like the others. I’m downloading what I can from it and cross-checking the numbers and texts with what we have.”
Pete stood up and began pacing back and forth in his room.
“And . . . this is really important. I did a hunt and found that the other names he used . . . the ones on the passports . . . had two different checking and savings accounts at two different banks. He also had another condo in Thornridge on the Southside of Chicago. We’ve got a warrant, and we’re going there now.”
The gears in Pete’s head spun, thinking of next steps and the steps after that.
“Who knows about this?”
“You, me, Skip, Summer and Morgan.”
“Okay. I’ll let Dandridge know. I want a lid on this. There are people out there running around, and we aren’t sure who’s playing on what team . . . at least for sure.”
“No problem. Once we check it out, I’ll be back in touch.”
“And Chet, you and Skip stay together and be careful. I mean it.”
Finally a lead. Pete didn’t know where it would go or to whom it would point to, but it was a lead.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Fishers, Indiana
“Bobby, stay here on the front lawn and wait for one of us to come get you!”
Brooke didn’t wait for Bobby’s answer. She took the three steps up to the front door, stood to the side, turned the knob and pushed it open.
“FBI. Brett, I’m coming in.”
“We’re in the kitchen,” he yelled back. “My fucking uncle’s not going anywhere.”
She stepped in low and fast and cleared the front entrance and living room. She moved down the hallway and entered the kitchen.
“We need an ambulance,” Victoria said.
Brooke determined that the crime scene was secure.
“Brett, I need your gun.”
He dislodged the magazine and ejected the bullet in the chamber and then handed her the gun by holding on to the barrel and put the magazine and bullet in her other hand.
“It’s MB’s. I took it when Fuckhead wasn’t looking.”
She stared down at Dominico. He lay on the floor of the kitchen, bleeding from multiple wounds, and holding his crotch and writhing in pain. A puddle, wet, dark and sticky had pooled around him.
She looked at Brett. Indeterminate expression, at least none she could discern.
They heard sirens in the distance.
In a flat, emotionless voice, Brett said, “His gun is over there on the floor. He fired three shots. One towards my mom. It hit the salt shaker over there on the counter. You can see the bullet entry. If he were actually aiming at her, he would have shot her. He fired two shots at MB hitting her in the stomach.”
“Abdomen, lower left quadrant,” Victoria said. She turned around looking grim. “We need an ambulance,” she repeated.
“It’s on the way. What do you need me to do right now?”
Victoria glared at her brother and said, “Arrest that son of a bitch on the floor. You can do that.”
Pete showed up after the ambulance and two sets of squad cars. Police tape had been set up, and the house had been cordoned off. Neighbors had gathered on front lawns and front porches and watched nervously. They were like moths to a flame, except in this case, the flame was the light bar on a cop car.
He held out his creds and nodded at this cop or that cop and entered the house and found paramedics working over MB. Another group had stabilized Dominico and had loaded him up on a gurney and started an IV drip. Pete walked over to make sure he was handcuffed to it, and he was.
Just to be sure, he yanked the cuffs, causing Dominico to yell and one of the paramedics to say, “What the hell?”
He found Brooke standing in the family room, one hand on her holstered gun, the other relaxed at her side. She was standing in front of Victoria, who sat on the couch with her arm around Bobby and her other hand on Brett’s knee. He couldn’t tell what they were feeling because of their flat affect.
Pete turned to Brooke and asked, “Has Thomas been contacted?”
Brooke nodded and said, “He’s on his way back. Tom Albrecht said they’re ten or fifteen minutes out.”
When Albrecht got the call from Brooke, he and Thomas were already at the university. Tom had cleared the second floor and Thomas’ office, then went back down the hall and had waited by the main stairs, while Thomas went into his office. Upon receiving the call from Brooke, Tom raced down the hall and burst in and found Tom and his TA in an amorous position on his desktop.
Disgusted, Tom said, “While you’re here groping a coed, Dominico showed up at your house and pulled a gun on your wife and your two boys. The agent assigned to your family’s protection was shot and in serious condition. Perhaps that’s more important than copping a feel or getting laid. I’m leaving. I suggest you do the same.”
Albrecht arrived well ahead of Thomas and jogged up the driveway and into the house. He found the boys sitting on the couch with their mother. Bobby spoke with one detective who knelt in front of him with a small notepad, while Brett spoke with another who had pulled up a kitchen chair. Both boys gave their accounts of what had taken place.
MB and Dominico had been taken away by different ambulances. A Crime Investigations Unit worked the scene. He counted one taking photographs and one videotaping the scene in the kitchen. Each wore plastic booties and latex gloves, which Albrecht could never understand because there were cops and agents all over the place traipsing around mucking up the scene without gloves or booties. He wanted to yell at them, and if he were in Waukesha, would have. He wasn’t, so he didn’t.
Brooke introduced him to Pete, and they shook hands. Just as Brooke began filling him in on what had transpired, Thomas entered the house and walked immediately into the family room.
“Dad!” Bobby yelled, interrupting his debrief.
Brett smiled at his dad, who smiled back briefly, and falsely, then looked at the floor.
Thomas looked at Victoria, who sighed and turned away from him, burying her face into Bobby’s hair as she pulled him closer to her.
Brett took it all in. He looked at his mother curiously and then at his father, who stood there awkwardly in front of them with his hands stuffed into his brown plaid sport coat pockets. Brett looked back at his mom and understood.
His dad had been cheating on his mom. And, his mom had known it was happening.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Eureka, Missouri
Their cells went off almost simultaneously, either buzzing or chiming or a musical ringtone, depending upon whose cell it was.
Pete called Jeremy. Stephen called Randy. Tim called George, and Brett called Patrick. Billy and Danny knew something big had happened and were hoping it wasn’t someone dead or dying. The boys mostly listened and seldom spoke.
Typical of him, George was stoic, devoid of expression thus giving away nothing. Being polite, Randy had a habit of speaking softly and turning his back on anyone who happened to be in the room when he spoke on the phone, and this night was no different. Patrick paced, head down, one hand holding his phone and the other on top of his head.
The first inkling that it was
good news was when Patrick pumped a fist in the air and yelled, “Yes!”
George, who had been sitting on the floor by the inter-room door, nodded and smiled up at him, then smiled at Danny and Billy and then nodded at something that was said on the other end. Randy hadn’t turned around, but hugged himself as he listened. That left Billy puzzled.
“Brett wants to talk to you,” Patrick said, holding the phone out to George. Then he turned to Billy and Danny and said, “Brett shot his uncle, and his uncle was arrested! Brett’s safe!”
“Tim, can I give you to Patrick? Brett wants to talk to me,” George said. “Yeah, sure. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
He held the phone out to Patrick who took it and began speed talking. Billy and Danny listened closely as Patrick retold the story he had received from Brett.
“Hi, Brett,” George said. “Tim told me what happened.”
“Yeah.”
George waited, but frowned when nothing further came from him.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
Brett spoke quietly. “Can we talk . . . in private?”
George stood up and stepped outside the hotel room, shut the door behind him, and sat down beside the door. Noise from the pool area below their balcony echoed off the walls and glass ceiling. The smell of chlorine caused his eyes and sinuses to burn.
The closest person to him was several doors down, and he was holding a can of Miller Lite and staring at someone or something in the pool below them.
“You okay?” George repeated.
“I think I’m fucked up,” Brett said.
George couldn’t tell whether Brett was crying or not. His voice didn’t have the confidence he normally had. George pictured him in darkness, by himself and alone somewhere either in his house or in his yard.
“What do you mean?”
Brett sighed. He couldn’t put into words what he was feeling. He had never felt the way he did and had no reference for identifying it.
“Can I ask you a question? I mean . . . just you and me? No one else?”
“Sure.”
“When you killed that man that one night, what did you feel?”
George had tried to bury that memory and those feelings as deeply as he could, but when he shot the tires of Cochrane’s car at the hospital in Chicago, that same feeling came back to him. Especially when Cochrane shot and killed himself.
“Not good.”
“What do you mean?”
George waited until a mother and daughter had walked past him on their way to their room three doors down. The girl, about five or six, looked at him curiously and then smiled. George smiled back. The mother carried three bottles of soda and a bottle of water while trying to open their door.
“Navajos respect life. We don’t believe in killing another human being. We only do that if there is no other way. That man didn’t leave me a choice. He tried to shoot me and then kept going for his gun.”
Brett longed to speak with him face to face. He wanted to read George’s expression and study his body language. Being two states away, the only thing he could do was listen closely to the tone of his voice and the words he chose.
“Why do you ask?”
George was certain Brett was crying. He heard muffled sobs and sniffles.
“I think I’m fucked up.”
“Why?”
“When I shot my uncle . . . the first two shots were to get the gun out of his hand. I wanted to make sure he couldn’t use his right hand. Then I shot his right knee because I didn’t want him coming after me or Bobby or my mom. Then I shot his left hand because his gun was close, and I knew he could shoot with either hand.”
This made sense to George, and he nodded in agreement.
“But then . . .” Brett sobbed. “I shot him in the leg again.”
George didn’t understand why this upset Brett because he thought Brett was just trying to disable him.
“Then, I don’t know,” Brett said. “I was pissed. I kept thinking of all the stuff he did to me . . . all the stuff he did to Bobby.” George waited patiently. “He was sitting on the floor holding his legs. He was bleeding all over the place. I stood over him and shot his balls off.”
George blinked and reflexively drew his knees up to his chest.
“I didn’t have to, but I was pissed. You told me not to lose focus. You told me to be in control.” Brett sobbed and said, “Fuck, George. I didn’t have to shoot him there. I didn’t have to.”
George couldn’t put himself in Brett’s place. He didn’t have any experience like this. Killing the man that was sent to kill him, Jeremy and the twins, was defensive. He didn’t do anything . . . additional, nothing that was more than necessary. The man left him no choice but to kill him.
“What’s wrong with me?” Brett sobbed.
“Nothing, Brett.”
“But I didn’t have to do that. I know what he did to me, Bobby, and the others, but I didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Am I . . . I don’t know . . . bad or something? Evil?” Brett sobbed again.
“No, Brett. You’re not evil.”
“But when I shot him, I wasn’t in control. I think I liked it. But I don’t now. If I could take it back, I would.”
“That is why you are not evil,” George explained. “If you were evil, you would not feel like you do now. You are sad. You are not happy about it.”
“Fuck no!” Brett said with a sob. “I feel awful!”
“That is why you are not evil. You have a good heart, Brett.”
Brett sniffled back, and George pictured him wiping tears on the front of his shirt or on his sleeve.
“I don’t think I have a good heart.”
“You do, Brett,” George said with a sad smile. “If you didn’t, you would not feel this way.”
“You think so?” Brett asked hopefully.
“I am sure. I would not like you if you did not have a good heart.”
There was silence. Even though it went on quite long, neither felt compelled to break it.
Finally George said, “My grandfather told me that in all of us, there are two wolves. One is good and one is evil. We make a choice each day to feed one wolf or the other. The one we feed the most determines whether or not we are good or evil. I believe you feed the good wolf.”
Brett was silent and the only thing George heard was sniffles.
“You don’t think I’m fucked up?”
George shook his head and said, “No.”
“I wish I could be there with you.”
“Me, too.”
“Are we still friends?” Brett asked shyly.
“Yes, Brett. We are friends.”
“Okay.”
Brett sniffled again, took a deep breath and said, “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t tell anyone what we talked about, okay?” Brett asked, and then added, “Please? Not Jeremy or Randy or anybody. Okay?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Well, okay,” Brett said sadly. “Well, goodbye.”
“Navajos don’t say goodbye,” George teased. “There’s no such word.”
“So what do we say?” Brett said with a small laugh.
“We say, ‘‘Yá'át'ééh’’. It’s a greeting from one friend to another.”
Brett said, “I remember. How about if I say, ‘Talk to you again soon’?”
George laughed and said, “I’d like that.” And then on impulse, George said, “Brett?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you, and you are my friend.”
“Me, too.”
George turned off his phone and sat with his head pressed against the wall and his eyes shut.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Eureka, Missouri
He had a bad feeling.
He had not heard or seen his grandfather, but he had a bad feeling.
Geo
rge stared up at the ceiling, listening to night sounds and waiting . . . for what? He didn’t know.
He turned to his right. Patrick was curled up against Billy. One arm was thrown over Billy’s chest, his head on Billy’s shoulder sleeping quietly, peacefully. His mouth was partially open and a bit of drool had seeped out. Billy had turned slightly towards Patrick, their heads touching. He turned to his left. Randy lay on his back, arms out to the side, right leg up. Danny faced the window and away from Randy, but up against him.
George looked at the window. The heavy rust-colored curtains weren’t pulled all the way shut. Just the thin, white privacy curtain was pulled. It allowed ambient light into the room but didn’t allow anyone from the outside to see in. At the side of each door along the hallway, there was a small light that allowed someone to walk comfortably and securely, which was important on the second, third and fourth floors.
He saw a shadow of a man appear at the window, stop and peer into the room and then slowly pass by.
George sat up, and without thinking, slipped his feet into his moccasins, and he took hold of his knife that was on the nightstand.
“What?” Billy asked groggily, raising his head from the pillow.
Patrick hadn’t stirred.
George motioned to him to be silent, and Billy slowly sat up in bed and absently wiped the drool off his shoulder while he stared at George and then at the window. George waited, frozen in his spot, not ready to relax even though the shadow had moved on.