by Joseph Badal
“The operative word is legitimate. What if you were to query the NCIC for people who had charges against them or who had served time for dealing in stolen goods? Especially rare coins.”
“Interesting theory. But do you have any idea how many people you’re talking about across the United States?”
“I understand. But what if you concentrated on Gallup and other towns east of there? Grants, Albuquerque, Santa Rosa. Maybe south on Interstate 25. Towns like Los Lunas, Belen, Socorro.”
“What about north? Or they could have backtracked and headed toward California. It’s a needle in a hay stack.”
“I know, I know.”
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try to find out if William Brownell had a coin collection. If he did, I’ll check NCIC for fences who specialize in coins. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’m in Philadelphia on business,” he lied. “Would you mind if I called you for updates?”
“Any time, Mr. Thornton.”
Detective Dennis Forrester processed the information Race Thornton had given him about the man caught on the security camera during the home invasion in Flagstaff. Then he went over every detail in the Thornton case file. There was nothing in it that stimulated new thinking. But Thornton’s identification was a lead that no law enforcement agency had before. Then Forrester opened the NCIC database and referenced the Thornton case from almost forty months ago. He went through the file and thought, at first, he’d glossed over something. He went back through the file, but he found information missing that he had put into the case file. That information might have been unimportant at the time the file was loaded in NCIC, but, unimportant or not, it should be in the database. He might have missed it altogether if Thornton hadn’t asked the question about William Brownell’s coin collection.
Forrester knocked on his captain’s open door. “Got a minute?”
“That’s about all I’ve got. The mayor wants me in his office.”
“I’ll make this quick. Got a call from Race Thornton.”
“Ah, jeez. Is that poor man still obsessing over what happened to his family?”
Forrester frowned. “No disrespect, Captain, but what would you do if your wife and kids had been brutally assaulted and murdered?”
The captain nodded and waved at Forrester as though to tell him to finish up.
“Thornton saw the video captured at the Flagstaff break-in. Claims one of the men in the video was the one who attacked him and murdered his family.”
“After all these years, he claims it’s the same guy?”
“He’s absolutely certain.”
The captain swiveled around in his chair and looked out the window. When he swiveled back to look at Forrester, he said, “If I recall correctly, this gang left DNA and fingerprint evidence behind on multiple occasions. In a dozen cases in many states.”
“That’s right.”
“But this is the first time photographic evidence is available.”
Forrester nodded.
“Then the Feds must be on these guys.”
“I have no idea. I mean, we uploaded information into the NCIC database about the Thornton case, but we’ve never been contacted by anyone from the FBI about it.”
“I think it’s time you called the FEEBs and asked them if they inputted the video into their facial recognition system.”
“You know, Captain, Thornton asked me something that now has me confused. He said he knew a guy named William Brownell who had a coin collection. He wondered if the man murdered in Flagstaff was the same guy.”
“So?”
“Race Thornton had a very valuable coin collection that was stolen the night he was beaten and his family killed. I checked the NCIC database and there is no reference to that collection in the Thornton file.”
“Stuff happens.”
“Yeah, but many of Thornton’s coins were so rare that it was important to put their descriptions in the NCIC system. If one of those coins turned up, it could lead to the killers.”
“What’s your point?”
Forrester shrugged. “Just curious. What if the man in Flagstaff was also a coin collector?”
“So what? There must be millions of coin collectors in the United States.”
CHAPTER 20
Barbara followed Susan into Rudy Salas’s office. This was Susan’s show.
“What can I do for you, Detectives?” Salas asked.
Susan moved to within an inch of the front of Salas’s desk. “You read the report we put on your desk this morning?”
“Of course,” Salas said.
“Listen, Lieutenant, we think there’s a serial killer out there murdering people for money, and—”
Salas interrupted, said, “He’s not just murdering people. He’s murdering really bad people who have slipped through the cracks in the criminal justice system.”
Susan nodded. “That’s right. But he’s still a murderer who needs to be taken off the streets.”
“No shit,” Salas said. “So you and your partner are about to ask my permission to take a road trip to someplace to try to track this guy down.”
“Well . . . that’s right.”
“Getting tired of the bad weather we’ve had around here lately?”
“I don’t understand, Lieutenant.”
Salas stared at Susan for a good five seconds. Finally he said, “You have three work days and a budget of three thousand dollars. Make sure your other cases are covered while you’re out gallivanting around the country.”
Barbara had made hard copies of Sophia Otero-Hansen’s original case files of the vigilante’s victims, including recent murders in Las Vegas. All the incidents had occurred over the past thirty-six months. She culled the files on cases in Phoenix and Las Vegas.
“How do you want to do this?” Susan asked.
“First, let’s go see Victor Graves. Show him the photos of Eric Matus.”
“If our theory’s correct, Graves may never have met Eric Matus. Matus, or his partner, may have contacted clients anonymously.”
“That’s right. But maybe the shot of Matus in a pool of blood with a chunk of metal in his chest will shake up Graves enough to get him to talk.”
“Then what?”
“We fly to Las Vegas. There are two families there whose loved ones were crime victims. The men who victimized their family members were all killed.”
“The Smiths and the Puccinis, right?” Susan asked.
“Right. Then we’ll fly to Phoenix.”
Victor Graves’s receptionist was no friendlier this time than she had been the first time Barbara and Susan dropped by his offices. But, this time, they’d called ahead. Graves came out to the small conference room with another man in tow.
When they were all seated, Graves said, “Detectives, this is my lawyer, Jefferson Hartley.”
Hartley skidded business cards across the granite table-top. “Mr. Graves obviously wants to cooperate with your investigation. But I may have to object if you ask any inappropriate questions.”
“Inappropriate questions, Mr. Hartley?” Barbara said. “We’re trying to identify a serial killer who has murdered at least twelve people, including three in Las Vegas in the past two days alone.” She smiled, laughed, then added, “Unless Mr. Graves has been roaming the country wiping out people, what could I ask that would be inappropriate?”
“My client is a busy man. If you have serious questions to ask, let’s get to it.”
Susan opened a folio she’d carried into the room and pulled out half-a-dozen photographs Sophia Otero-Hansen had provided. She turned the first one over to Graves. “You ever see the man in that photograph?”
Graves’s complexion paled after he turned the photo around. “Holy . . . .” He pushed the photo to his attorney and looked up at Susan, who slid another five photographs to him in rapid succession. He looked at one more and then pushed them all back
at Susan.
“Why would I have seen that man?”
Barbara said, “I mentioned that a killer has murdered at least twelve people. Every—”
“I fail to see what my client would have to do with a murderer,” Hartley said, his voice full of indignation.
“Why don’t I explain it to you, Mr. Hartley?” Barbara said. “Every one of the people murdered by this serial killer had committed a serious crime against an innocent victim. One of the serial killer’s victims was Sylvester O’Neil, the man who murdered your client’s son, Adam.”
Barbara paused and looked at Victor Graves. The man sat rigidly in his chair; his eyes bored into hers as though they were heat-seeking missiles. She turned to look at Hartley. “As an officer of the court, Mr. Hartley, you should know better than most people that we can’t allow vigilantes to commit murder, regardless of how hideous their victims are.”
“I say again,” Hartley said, “I fail to see what my client would have to do with a murderer.”
Susan had been rocking in her chair. She suddenly stopped and shifted forward in her seat. “As Detective Lassiter said, every one of the people murdered by this vigilante killer had committed a heinous crime. What’s interesting about the murdered men’s victims is that they all came from well-to-do families who presumably could afford to pay the vigilante a fee.” She looked from Hartley to Graves. “But sooner or later the killer will get it wrong. One of these days, he’ll kill an innocent man or woman. That person’s death will be on the heads of all the people who paid this vigilante to exact retribution.”
Hartley pushed back from the table and stood. “You’ve obviously run out of questions and are now preaching. This meeting is over.”
CHAPTER 21
His lack of access to current information about the home invasion team frustrated Race. Even if Detective Dennis Forrester in Amarillo helped him, there was just so much that the detective would give him. So, Race was dependent upon whatever news hit media outlets. But by the time he read or heard news reports, the information in them was untimely. He needed unfettered access to law enforcement. The only people with that sort of access were cops themselves, prosecutors, and the media. He considered hacking into the servers of a media outlet, or the FBI, but that would take time that he didn’t have.
Based on the information about the Ford Explorer abandoned in Gallup, the three Flagstaff murderers had obviously moved eastward from Flagstaff, so Race decided to try to get as close to them as possible. He left the Winslow motel and pushed the pickup truck eighty-five miles an hour toward Gallup. He estimated he would reach the city by 5 p.m.
It was on the leg between Flagstaff and Gallup that an idea occurred to him.
“Herald-Tribune,” a woman said.
“Victor Graves, please.”
“Hold, please.”
A long half-minute went by before another woman came on the line. “Mr. Graves’s office. May I help you?”
“Mr. Graves, please.”
“Mr. Graves has already left his office. He won’t be back again until tomorrow morning. May I ask who’s calling?”
“I assume you can reach Mr. Graves on his cell phone.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Tell Mr. Graves I’m the man who helped him to finally sleep at night. Tell him to call this number in fifteen minutes.” Race recited a phone number.
“Sir, is this some kind of joke?”
“I assure you it is not.”
“What if I can’t get hold of Mr. Graves?”
“That would be very problematical for your boss.”
Ten minutes later, Race’s cell phone rang. Victor Graves’s name showed on the screen.
“Thanks for calling back,” Race said.
“Did I have a choice?”
“Not really.”
“What is this, some sort of extortion game? You want more money?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I paid . . . .”
Graves stopped in mid-sentence. Race thought it was because the man worried that he might be recording the call. That didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was that Graves had apparently paid money to Eric Matus. Race felt violated. Eric had lied to him.
“I assure you, Mr. Graves, this isn’t about money. I need your help.”
“What sort of help?”
“You must have heard about the murders in Flagstaff.”
“Of course. Horrible.”
“You also heard that the men who murdered the family there are suspected in other home invasions and murders?”
“Yes.”
Race didn’t want to give Graves information that might compromise his own identity, so he improvised a story: “I’ve been hired by a distraught family member whose wife and children were tortured and murdered by these same men. I am on their trail, but the only information I can get is so dated it’s almost useless. By the time a story is published in your paper, it’s old news. If the murderers steal a vehicle in Albuquerque, for instance, they could be in Amarillo, Denver, or anywhere, by the time I hear about it. I know you have access to the authorities, to people willing to share current information with them. I need you to share that information with me as soon as it is available.”
“That would be—”
“What, Mr. Graves? Were you about to say that would be unethical or illegal?”
Graves didn’t respond.
Race continued, “So is hiring someone to murder the man who killed a boy.”
After several seconds, Graves said, “That’s all you want? Information?”
“That, and press credentials in the name of Phillip Taylor.”
Graves asked, “How do we communicate?”
“I’ll call you.”
“What about the press credentials?”
“If I recall correctly, there’s a sandwich place in the little shopping center across from your building. Leave the credentials taped under the table closest to the men’s room at 11 a.m. tomorrow.”
“A press pass needs a photograph.”
“Don’t laminate the pass. I’ll deal with the photograph myself.”
CHAPTER 22
Reese McCall drove the Dodge van he’d stolen in Gallup off Interstate 40 at the Milan, New Mexico exit, pulled behind what appeared to be an empty warehouse, and turned off the ignition. “Sooner or later, we need to dump this van and split up,” he said. “The cops will be looking for three men together.”
“Two pale faces and one brother, to be precise,” Gerald Bryant said. He scoffed. “I’m feeling a lot exposed hanging with you two.”
Kiley Lewis, in the van’s backseat, yelled, “This ain’t funny, Gerry. You were supposed to check the place in Flagstaff for cameras. How the hell did you miss it? Look at the shit we’re in because you didn’t do your job.”
“Screw you, Kiley. There was no fuckin’ camera on the side of that house.”
“Apparently there was,” Lewis said. “How else did the cops get our pictures?”
“Let’s take it outside,” Bryant growled.
“Fine with me,” Lewis shouted and opened the sliding door.
“Shut the damned door,” McCall ordered Lewis, “before some cop sees the light. And both of you shut the hell up. We won’t accomplish a thing turning on one another.”
“Screw you, Gerry,” Lewis mumbled.
“And the horse you rode in on, Kiley,” Bryant retorted.
“I said that’s enough,” McCall said. “You guys are like little kids.”
The three men sat in silence, until McCall said, “We need to get out of the country for a while. We’ve already got enough cash on us to last a while in Mexico. Once we turn over the loot from the Flagstaff job, we should be fixed for two years, at least.”
“How the hell are we gonna make it to Mexico?” Bryant said. “First, I agree with you; we need to split up. That means we’ll need at least one more vehicle, assuming I take off on my own. And, if I were you
, I wouldn’t be too confident about staying in this damned van much longer. It’s probably been reported stolen from that used car lot in Gallup by now.”
McCall nodded. “You’re probably right on all counts.” He looked at his cell phone. “It’s 9:15 and we haven’t eaten since noon. I noticed a Mickey D’s three blocks back, on the main street. Kiley, why don’t you walk back there and get us something to eat. Then we’ll wait until midnight and dump this piece-of-shit. We’ll take two vehicles off another used car lot and take off for Mexico.”
“We going through Albuquerque, then heading south on I-25?” Lewis asked.
“Not a good idea,” McCall answered. “Too many cops in a city that size. I checked on my cell. There’s a State Road 6 off I-40 that runs to I-25, south of Albuquerque. About an hour-and-a-half drive. Then we can head south to El Paso. Another three hours, or so. All goes well; we should be at the Juarez border crossing by around 5 a.m.”
“Yeah, if some cop doesn’t spot one of our stolen vehicles,” Bryant whined. “Or the cars don’t break down. Or—”
“Waa, waa-waa, waa-waa,” Lewis said. “You sound like a little bitch.”
Bryant jumped out of the front passenger seat to the ground and opened the side sliding door.
“Shit,” McCall muttered as he got out from behind the wheel. He rushed around the front of the van and ran at Bryant, who landed a hard right to Lewis’s face, bloodying the man’s nose.
McCall threw Bryant on the pavement and kicked him in the stomach. Then he dragged Lewis from the van, cuffed the side of his head, and knocked him down next to Bryant.
“You dumb shits. I’ve got half-a-mind to dump you both right here and take off without you.”
“You can’t do that, Reese,” Bryant said as he sat up and tried to breathe. “You dump us and we call the cops and put ‘em on your trail.”
“Good point. That would be pretty stupid of me, leaving you behind to rat on me.”
Lewis groaned as he wiped his nose with his hand. “That’s right,” he blurted. “It’s all for one and one for all.”