by Ben Rehder
I flipped to CNN, knowing they’d be on it, which was an understatement. At this point, the Turner case was probably eating up half of their broadcast day. At the moment, one of their legal experts was conjecturing on the implications of the latest news.
“…can only imagine how Patrick Hanrahan might’ve reacted upon hearing that his wife was thinking about a divorce. He has a lot to lose, because even though he is not Tracy’s biological father, as we’ve learned in the past few days, he is as close to her as if she were his own flesh and blood. He has been in her life, acting as her father, since she was one year old. One can only guess what—”
I flipped to MSNBC. They were interviewing one of Kathleen Hanrahan’s friends, but they were concealing her face and altering her voice for anonymity. The woman—at least, it sounded like a woman—was saying that Kathleen had been unhappy for several years and had spoken about divorce on many different occasions. Then the woman said that Kathleen had recently seemed even more troubled than before—like something traumatic had happened. I listened for a few minutes, but the woman never gave any actual reasons why Kathleen was unhappy, and it became obvious that there were no hard facts beyond what I already knew.
I flipped to Fox News. They were doing a segment on how the secular left was taking God out of school and simultaneously pushing the radical homosexual socialist agenda.
I went back to the baseball game just as my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I answered anyway, expecting the tow truck driver, but what I got instead was a woman with a very nice voice asking, “Is this the Texas Restaurant and Innkeepers Association?”
I’ll admit that, for maybe a full second, I had no idea who it was. Too distracted. But I recovered before it became obvious.
“It is indeed. This is Roy Ballard, assistant vice president of the hospitality appreciation division. Who’s calling, please?”
“Jessica Klein.”
“Let’s see. Klein, Klein, Klein. Oh, Klein! As in the award winner.”
“That’s me.”
“Are you calling to schedule your acceptance dinner?”
“Uh, that sort of depends.”
“Oh? Depends on what, Miss Klein?”
“Well, Mr. Ballard, let me ask you something. Are you asking me to dinner because you actually want to go out with me, or are you asking because you want me to snoop around about Brian Pierce?”
“Wow. You cut right to it, don’t you?”
“I think it’s a legitimate question.”
“You know what? I do, too. The bottom line is I’d love to go to dinner with you, regardless of this thing with Brian Pierce. If you don’t want to talk about him, we won’t talk about him.”
“Good answer.”
“Honest answer.”
“Okay, but if I had heard something about Brian, you’d want to hear it?”
“Well, sure, yeah, I’m not gonna lie.”
There was a pause, then she said, “I’m off today. Why don’t we meet for a drink later and I’ll tell you what I know. We can get that out of the way, and then, if you really do want to go out—”
“I do.”
“One step at a time. A drink first. And don’t forget my trophy.”
21
“Brian Pierce did not want to apply for workers’ comp,” Jessica Klein said.
I took a sip of my iced tea and let that sink in, wondering if my case had just come to an end. It was a little past six in the evening. We were sitting on the patio of a restaurant called the Iron Cactus in the shopping center—oh, excuse me, the “lifestyle center”—called the Hill Country Galleria. Not far from Pierce’s house, and not far from La Tolteca, the restaurant where he and Jessica worked. Maybe she lived nearby, too, but I hadn’t asked her that yet.
“He didn’t?” I asked, because my interview techniques are honed to a razor’s edge.
She shook her head. “It sounds like he didn’t even know what workers’ comp was, or at least he didn’t know that it would apply to his situation.”
Jessica looked even prettier than the previous time I’d seen her. Her blond hair, which had been pulled back the other day, was now loose and flowing past her shoulders. I was fairly sure she was wearing more makeup. The baby-blue V-neck tank top hugging her torso was a hell of a lot more flattering than her waitress outfit. It wasn’t easy to remain totally focused.
“How do you know this?” I asked.
“Manager told me. He said he had to twist Brian’s arm”—she grinned—“ha, no pun intended, but he had to twist Brian’s arm to get him to take workers’ comp. I didn’t really understand why, but Terry—that’s the manager—he said that the higher-ups would want Brian to apply for it. It was better if he did.”
“Yeah, workers’ comp is a trade-off,” I said. “In exchange for benefits, you agree not to sue for negligence.”
“Oh, is that how it works?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, Terry said that Brian didn’t even tell anybody he got injured. I mean, some of the other people working that night heard what happened. He started to fall, so he reached out for the nearest thing, which was a stack of dishes. A couple of people came in to see if he was okay, and he said he was. But later on it was obvious that he was hurt because he couldn’t keep up with the work. By the end of the night he couldn’t even use that hand anymore.”
“So he finally admitted he was hurt?”
“Yeah, Terry talked to him. Brian said he’d probably need to take the next day off, and Terry insisted that he go see a doctor. Brian wouldn’t have to pay for it, the restaurant’s insurance policy would. Brian resisted at first, because he thought the whole thing was his own fault.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Apparently he had hosed off one of the rubber floor mats and left it out back. He knew he wasn’t supposed to work without that mat in place, but he did anyway, and he slipped on the wet tile.”
“Sounds like maybe it was his fault, but workers’ comp still applies. It’s a no-fault type of insurance.”
“Well, regardless, even when the doctor said Brian had a pretty bad injury and wouldn’t be able to work for at least a month or two, Brian still resisted the insurance benefits at first. But Terry talked some sense into him. Anyway, my point is, isn’t the fact that Brian didn’t want workers’ comp a pretty good sign that he’s probably not faking his injury?”
“Almost certainly.”
“So this is useful information?”
“You bet it is. Very useful. I really appreciate it.”
“Did I earn my margarita?”
“I’d say two, if you’re up for another one.” Her first one was almost gone.
“Maybe.” She looked at my iced tea. “Do you not drink?”
Dates—or whatever this was—inevitably arrived at this topic. I always gave an honest answer. “Oh, I would if I could,” I said. “I’d love a cold beer right now. But it would violate my probation.”
She laughed, as they usually do, until she realized I wasn’t joking. Then she frowned. “Whoa.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Really?”
“Here’s the story,” I said slowly, “assuming you want to hear it…”
“I do, if you want to share it.”
“Okay, about three years ago, I broke my boss’s nose. He called one of my female coworkers a really vile name and I lost my temper. I ended up pleading to a lesser charge and getting probation because, well, he didn’t want to push it too hard. He was a misogynist who routinely harassed women and all of that would’ve been brought up in my trial. Anyway, I had just finished my probation for that when I got pulled over for suspicion of DWI.” Her eyebrows went up.
“The Breathalyzer proved I was legal,” I said. “Not even halfway to point oh eight. But they found a small bottle of pills in my van. Stimulants. There were a couple of occasions when I took them to stay awake on stakeouts. I think maybe I did that eight or ten times total. No
more than that. Cross my heart. Anyway, I can’t drink. That’s one of the terms.” I took a sip of tea and gave an exaggerated sigh of refreshment. “Ah. Good stuff.”
She was studying me, and I don’t blame her. There are a lot of liars out there. Many of them downplay their problems. Gloss over their shortcomings.
“Questions?” I said. A lot of women are done at this point. Not just done asking questions, done with me.
“How much longer is your probation?”
“Eight months, three weeks.”
“Popped any pills lately?
“Ha. No. I’m done with that.”
“Any other arrests I should know about?”
“Not a one. Haven’t even had a speeding ticket in fourteen years.”
“What was the name the guy called your coworker?”
“You really want to hear it?”
“I’m a big girl.”
“But man, I really hate this particular word. It rhymes with runt.”
She nodded. “Gotcha. That is the worst one. So you decked the guy?”
“I had a microphone stand in my hand at the time. I popped him with that. It was just a reaction, to be honest. If I’d known it was gonna break his nose, I probably wouldn’t have done it.”
“You seem like a pretty mellow guy.”
“Hey, I really am. It just—I don’t like guys talking that way. It’s ugly.”
The waiter came just then and asked if she would like another margarita. The moment of truth. Had I totally freaked her out? She looked at me. Grinned. Finally said, “Yes, please.”
An hour and a half later, sitting in the van before I left the Galleria, I called Heidi’s cell. She answered by saying, “Calling on a Sunday evening must mean you have an update on Brian Pierce.”
“I do. He didn’t want workers’ comp. It had to be practically forced on him.”
“Come again?”
“A source says the manager of the restaurant had to poke him with a sharp stick just to get him to make a claim.”
“How reliable is this source?”
“I’d say very reliable.” Heidi didn’t reply right away. I could hear kitchen sounds—dishes clanking in the background. “Sorry if I interrupted your dinner.”
“Oh, I’m done. That’s Jim cleaning up. Like a good husband should.”
I waited.
She said, “Okay, I guess we close the file on Pierce.”
“That’s what I figured. Got another one for me?”
“At the moment, no, but I have one I’ll probably send your way in a day or two. End of the week at the latest.”
“You’re a peach.”
“And you know what? No more manila folders. Our new system went live on Friday. We have joined the electronic age.”
“So I won’t get to see you as much?”
“Only through binoculars from the parking lot.”
“Okay, good. As long as that part hasn’t changed.”
I took a left out of the parking lot and came very close to taking a left on Bee Cave Road to head home. Wish I would have. Instead, I remembered my rock camera. It was still at the base of that cedar tree, aimed at Pierce’s driveway. Didn’t want to leave a seven-hundred-dollar gizmo on the side of the road longer than I had to. So I continued east on Highway 71 for several minutes, then turned right on Thomas Springs Road. Dusk had settled in good and tight.
As soon as my headlights reached Pierce’s driveway, I could see that the dryer was gone. I was glad, because although I might be a conniving bastard, I’m not a litterbug, so if the dryer had still been there, I would’ve felt obligated to haul it away.
I drove past the driveway and continued down the road to the church parking lot, where I stopped and waited for a few seconds. No traffic from either direction. So I drove back to Pierce’s place and pulled over on the shoulder. This would be quick. Hop out, grab my rock camera, and be on my merry way.
Except it didn’t turn out like that at all.
I should say that there are times when I am wary and maybe even on edge, because my line of work might actually put me in danger. I’ve talked about the subjects who get angry after I’ve documented evidence of their fraud. Likewise, there are times when they’d get upset if they caught me in the process of trying to document that evidence. Nobody wants to be exposed as a cheater.
This didn’t seem like one of those times. The case was closed. It appeared that Pierce was not committing fraud, so he would have nothing to be jumpy about. And on top of that, he was a skinny little guy. He didn’t seem like the type that would present any sort of danger, even if he caught me red-handed watching him.
So I wasn’t being particularly careful. I wasn’t sneaking around or trying to be discreet. I wasn’t watching my back, or my front. No subtlety at all. Hell, I was even using a flashlight to make my way to the cedar tree where I’d hidden the camera.
And then—in the instant before the trouble began—I thought I heard something. Very faint. A rustling sound. A small limb rubbing against fabric. But I didn’t have time to react. Because then I heard a much louder sound—pop!—followed by an intense stabbing pain in my upper back that quickly spread all over my body. My motor skills evaporated instantly. My muscles contracted and I went as stiff as a board. I knew I was falling but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I hit the ground hard.
Getting Tasered. I knew that. And whoever was doing it hadn’t released the trigger yet. The juice was still flowing. I wanted so badly to scream, but I didn’t have the capability. I was totally helpless. Somebody was making some strange grunts and moans. Took me a second to realize it was me.
Then I heard a voice. Low. Commanding. Right above me.
“Don’t you fucking move. Not even an inch.”
22
Apparently the guy released the trigger at that point, because the electricity coursing through my body came to an immediate end. I can’t tell you how happy that made me. “You hear what I said?” I nodded.
“I’ll repeat it anyway: Don’t fucking move. And don’t say a word.”
I couldn’t speak yet even if I wanted to. He grabbed my right arm and pulled it behind my back. Then the left. I could feel handcuffs clicking into place.
Now there was cold steel alongside my temple. Easy to identify.
“Feel that?” Nod.
“Know what it is?” Nod again.
“I’ll use it if I have to. Not a threat, just a fact.”
The gun went away. I was doing my best to memorize the man’s voice, for later. Assuming there was a later.
“Lift your head.”
I raised my chin off the ground and a hood was pulled roughly over my head. Now I couldn’t see a thing. I really did not like where this was going. With just the handcuffs, it had still been feasible that this man, whoever he was, was going to call the cops. But a hood over my head? That meant he didn’t want me to see his face, which meant he definitely wasn’t calling the cops. On the bright side, it could also mean he wasn’t going to pump a slug into my skull, because in that case, it wouldn’t matter if I saw his face beforehand.
“On your feet,” he said, and he hoisted me up by my handcuffed arms. Powerful grip. He was using his right hand. Brian Pierce’s right hand was injured. Or supposed to be. I had no idea what to think at this point. Was this Pierce? Somebody else?
He spun me around and we started walking, with him guiding me along the uneven shoulder of the road. Toward my van. Of course. He couldn’t very well leave my van sitting there, not if he was going to haul me away cuffed and hooded.
“Step up.”
Ever try climbing into a tall vehicle when you can’t see where the hell you’re going? Not easy. But he steered me and turned me and flat-out manhandled me into place, and suddenly I was sitting in the passenger seat. I pulled my feet in after me.
“Watch your elbow.”
I leaned slightly toward the center of the vehicle and he closed the door. Maybe another good sign. Would he
be concerned about smacking my elbow with the door if he was planning to take me into the woods and execute me?
It was obvious that this was a well-planned operation, with a purpose. It wasn’t as if he’d randomly found me on the roadside and decided to abduct me. That meant this guy had found my camera. He knew I had been watching Pierce’s place, so he had responded by waiting for me to show up, knowing in advance how he would proceed if he got his paws on me.
The driver’s door was still open from when I had climbed out less than two minutes earlier, and now I felt the van dip slightly as he climbed in and took a seat. The door closed and he shifted into drive. Then he proceeded northeast on Thomas Springs Road, toward Highway 71.
I said, “Aren’t you going to buckle me in?”
No reply. I was taking a risk, talking, even though he’d told me not to.
“I didn’t hear the click of your seatbelt either,” I said. “Are you aware that driving without a seatbelt is a misdemeanor punishable by a fine of up to two hundred dollars?”
“Shut up. You will not get another warning.”
It’s probably no surprise that I didn’t want to get Tasered again, so I did shut up. Besides, it was a better use of my time to try to figure out where we were going. I could tell that he turned right on Highway 71, but after that, he took several more turns quickly, and it was hard to follow it in my mind’s eye. I think that was his intention. Then we drove for about ten minutes at highway speeds. No turns, no stopping at traffic lights. We had to be on either Highway 290 or Highway 71, heading west.
Eventually, we took a left and went much slower for a short distance. Several more turns followed, and then we finally came to a stop. He killed the engine immediately.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Johnny.”
“Johnny what?”
“Johnny Hungwell.”
“That’s a bad start. I’m telling you right now that I’m not a patient man.”
I was thinking about the nine-millimeter Glock hidden in the secret compartment beneath the rear passenger bench. Wasn’t doing me much good there, was it? Hell, it could be in the glove compartment, right in front of me, and it still wouldn’t matter until he uncuffed me.