by Bob Avey
The defunct manufacturing plant, with its high chain-link fence topped with coils of barbed wire, indeed resembled a concentration camp, a wartime prison that had somehow survived an apocalyptic siege. Adding to the effect, a small building that looked like a guard shack stood near the main entrance. It sat on stilts about fifteen feet above the ground. The main building, a massive tin-clad structure with rows of windows running along the top, sat in the middle of a huge concrete parking lot surrounded by the fence.
Elliot found a place where the fence had been cut, leaving a large hole, and he squeezed through, motioning for Conley and Beaumont to follow. With their weapons drawn, the three made their way cautiously across the deserted parking lot toward the building. Elliot realized how vulnerable they were, walking across an empty lot literally surrounded by good hiding places, so he circled around to the east fence line to take the long route with more cover. He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it one bit. He began to feel as if his actions were being manipulated, as though he were following instructions in a choreographed play. He paused, searching the area, trying to catch a glimpse of anything out of the ordinary. The caller was out there somewhere. Elliot could his feel eyes bearing down on him like a bird of prey.
They continued their journey, heading toward the west end of the building where a doorway large enough to accommodate a tractor-trailer rig led to the interior of the structure. As he drew closer, Elliot noticed that the west end of the complex was open on the sides, with only the roof of the building continuing like a large canopy.
Conley whispered, breaking the silence. “Hey, Elliot, this is a big area, a lot of ground to cover. What the hell we supposed to be looking for, anyway?”
“I’m not sure, exactly.”
Conley didn’t say anything, but the expression on his face begged for a better answer.
Elliot motioned for the group to pause. “I got a call,” he said, “some guy disguising his voice with an electronic device.”
“That’s it?”
“He said things,” Elliot continued, “that caused me to believe he knew something about the murders. I decided to pressure him a little, asked him to meet me somewhere so we could talk about it.”
Beaumont raised his eyebrows.
“He told me to come here.”
They stood for a moment in the stillness with their weapons drawn, glancing at one another, the only sounds other than their breathing coming from the distant traffic running along Peoria Avenue. Everyone seemed to agree silently, yet unanimously, that their presence there didn’t feel right.
Elliot considered turning back, but started toward the huge bay door instead. Conley and Beaumont followed. As he entered the building and began walking across the expansive concrete floor, Elliot surveyed the surroundings and noticed various abandoned pieces of machinery littering the area along with piles of scrap metal. The high ceilings and windows reminded him of a high school gymnasium. Near the door there was an old truck. The fact that it was still there where some worker had left it was amazing in its own right, but Elliot found it even more unbelievable that, other than a few strokes of paint added by a spray can, it looked to be in pretty fair condition.
Elliot paused when he came to the area where the walls ended, then eased out into the open under the canopied area. He swung around looking in all directions, holding the Glock in front of him. Beaumont and Conley were right behind him. The only thing of interest beneath the colossal tin gazebo was an industrial trash bin. Elliot made his way to the trash container and used the heel of his hand to shove one of the massive lids open. It banged loudly against the back of the bin, echoing a metallic sound through the shattered silence. With the lid removed, the bin revealed its contents: nothing. It was empty.
“Maybe we should forget about this and get out of here,” Beaumont said. “This place gives me the creeps.”
Elliot started to speak but as he turned, he saw a flash and an object—maybe a rifle barrel—sticking over the top of a building across the street; and as the events unfolded, seemingly in slow motion, he watched, helpless, as Conley, unaware of what was happening, stepped in front of him. The sickening sound that followed was a familiar one, for it always sounded the same—like a pound of raw meat slapping the surface of a stainless steel table. Conley collapsed into Elliot’s arms, driving them both into the side of the dumpster. Elliot laid him on the ground. Blood covered his shirt. Before he fell unconscious, he grabbed Elliot’s lapels and pulled him forward, his eyes full of fear and disbelief.
Another shot rang out, ricocheting off the concrete floor. Elliot scrambled to his feet and dragged Conley behind the trash bin, then opened fire, squeezing off a couple of shots in the direction of the shooter.
Beaumont swore under his breath. He, too, had leaped behind the bin.
Elliot ejected the empty clip in his gun and slapped in a full load. He knew it was little help against a high-powered rifle, but it was better than nothing. Beaumont was staring at him, motionless. “Get an ambulance,” Elliot told him, “and call for backup.”
The shots had come from a two-story cinder block building across the street. Taking cover along the back edge of the structure, Elliot made his way to the west end of the lot before working his way toward the area. As he neared the entrance to the building, he noticed it was locked and empty with a wooden For Lease sign nailed to a post in the front lawn. He suspected the shooter was gone by now, but he had to check it out. He eased around the building, looking for a way onto the roof. At the rear of the building, a ladder leaned against the wall. Transferring his weapon to his left hand, Elliot climbed the ladder and stopped before cautiously peering over the roofline. He saw nothing. He climbed onto the roof and edged closer to the only hiding place available, an air-conditioning unit. He carefully made his way around it, but again found nothing. The shooter was gone. Using the higher vantage point afforded by the roof, Elliot scanned the area. The only thing he saw was a black and white patrol car coming to a stop in front of the plant across the street. Seconds later, an ambulance showed up.
Elliot climbed down from the roof and started up the street he would’ve taken if he were trying to make a getaway: the one leading away from the scene. Soon he came to a salvage area where several busted-up city buses were parked. Holding the Glock in front of him, he entered the nearest bus. It smelled of body odor and cheap wine: a lair for the homeless. Elliot walked the aisle, checking behind each seat, hoping the bus was empty of its inhabitants. If one of them was to take the opportunity to poke his head up to see what was going on, in his high-strung condition Elliot might blow it off the poor cuss’s shoulders before either of them realized what was happening. Just as Elliot reached the last row, something jumped onto the seat, and it was all he could do to keep from shooting the scruffy alley cat that’d decided he’d had enough of this game of hide and seek. Elliot’s heart pounded as the cat jumped through the window. Other than that, the bus was empty.
Elliot searched the other buses—four of them in all—but found nothing. The shooter was gone. As he made his way back to the warehouse, the thought of Conley taking a bullet that was meant for him caused his stomach to burn. He went to Beaumont who was watching the ambulance drive away. “You okay?” he asked.
“I guess so.”
“How’s Conley?”
Beaumont shook his head. “He lost a lot of blood.”
“Where’d they take him?”
“St. Francis. He kept asking for you.”
25
Scrambled thoughts ran through Elliot’s head and he wondered if the hollow emptiness that’d started to grow inside would eventually engulf him as he walked through one of the glass portals that separated St. Francis Hospital from the rest of the world. He searched the halls, quizzing various concentrated brains with lab coats and clipboards, until he found the intensive care unit, that part of the hospital with a higher saturation of fears and a bed for David Conley. After winning out over the final spate-of- protests at the nurses
’ station, Elliot stood in the hallway outside Conley’s room, where he saw David’s wife, Susan, recognizing her from pictures Conley had shown him. He often talked of his family. Elliot’s legs grew weak as he approached her, something that always happened to him when he had to walk the corridors of medicine. He didn’t think it was a phobia, exactly, but hospitals and the people who occupied them always reminded him of sickness and death rather than healing. He extended his hand and took a deep breath before saying, “I’m Detective Elliot.”
Susan Conley fought to keep her face straight. “You were with David when it happened?”
She looked tired and much older than she was, but she was nicely dressed and graceful in her worry. “Yes,” Elliot said, handing her one of his cards. “If there’s anything I can do, anything you need…”
“You’ve done enough already, if you ask me.”
It was Conley’s son, a fourteen-year-old who was into dark clothing and body piercing. Elliot met his glance for a moment then turned back to Mrs. Conley “I am sorry.”
The boy sneered and walked away, stopping by the window to stand beside his sister. She was twelve, if Elliot remembered right, but her dress was short and tight, her face painted with makeup. They loved their father, though, and they were worried about him.
Conley’s wife gestured for her children to follow her. “It was nice meeting you, Detective. We appreciate your concern.”
Elliot watched them walk away then went into Conley’s room. He found him awake, though his eyes were glassy and distant as if he were seeing something other than his present surroundings—another time and place perhaps. He looked smaller, robbed of his usual gruffness among the array of life-support equipment, but he seemed to be aware of Elliot’s presence.
Elliot stepped up to the bed and Conley looked toward him, a faint smile on his lips. “Wondering if you were going to show up.”
It wasn’t what Elliot wanted to see. He’d hoped to find Conley well and complaining, asking Elliot when he was going to break him out of this joint. He took his hand, holding it with both of his own. “Saw your family in the hall.”
Conley nodded. “Families are nice, especially when you need someone. Have you found Rachael Johnson?”
“No.”
His breathing was rough, labored. “I’ve been thinking about things,” he said. “Got time to do that here. Wondering about you, why you live like you do.”
“You should spend your time more wisely.”
He tried to laugh, which made him cough. He raised his free hand and shook it slightly then lowered it to the bed. “We need to talk. There’s something you need to know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Elliot said. “We can figure it out later.”
He shook his head. “Beaumont’s been checking up on you, poking around in your past.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Dombrowski’s behind it.”
“I figured as much,” Elliot said, “but something puzzles me. What got Dombrowski interested?”
“The way I hear it, he got some anonymous letters.”
Elliot thought about that for a moment. Whoever wrote those letters knew quite a bit about the murders. “Any idea who would do such a thing?”
He shook his head. “I wish I did, pal. I’d show him a thing or two. Hey, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you. My being here, Rachael Johnson’s disappearance…even the killings in town, none of it has any more to do with you than it does with any other citizen. The world’s problems aren’t your fault, kid, no matter how much you’d like to take responsibility for them.”
“Even when you’re sick you talk too much.”
Conley smiled and quivered as if he was laughing, but nothing came out. Suddenly his grip tightened around Elliot’s hand and when Elliot again saw his eyes they held an unspoken statement: he knew he was dying. Elliot pulled loose from Conley’s grip and ran into the hallway, grabbing the first medical person he could find. Together they went back into Conley’s room.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Elliot said. “He stopped breathing.”
Someone else appeared and Elliot watched as he filled a syringe with fluid and injected Conley with it.
Before long Conley was breathing again, somewhat stabilized, but Elliot had a bad feeling. Death was close, hanging around and hovering over the bed like a thick fog. It was the worst thing Conley could’ve done, responding to Elliot’s backup call. If Elliot hadn’t known it already, then the events of the last few days had certainly made it clear. He had a bad track record with friends. Hell, he had a bad track record with life.
Conley closed his eyes and faded into a slow, rhythmic sleep. Elliot hated to be the one to have to do it, but he placed a call to Conley’s wife, telling her she might not want to stay away too long, then he walked out of the room and left the hospital. His mental faculties were as jumbled as Conley’s. He needed to be alone in a place without distractions so he could think. Not knowing where else to go, he found his car and drove home.
A few minutes later, Elliot pulled into his driveway and hit the garage door opener, but he left the car parked outside on the drive beside his pickup. He wanted to work, and he couldn’t get to his tools with two cars crowding the garage. He went inside and changed into some old clothes. Returning to the garage, he turned a five-gallon bucket upside down and placed it in front of the Studebaker as a seat and resumed his job of removing the bumper. Earlier he’d soaked the bolted joints with a substance from a spray can that claimed to loosen such things.
The nuts were still tight, but a few busted knuckles later, Elliot pulled the front bumper off and laid it on a tarp he’d spread across the concrete floor. He felt good about it. He’d actually accomplished something. And even though he was taking it apart and not putting it together, it was a start. He moved around to the rear of the car and removed the back bumper.
It wasn’t long until Elliot’s thoughts fell into a more orderly fashion. He wiped the dust from the side window with a shop towel and pressed his face against the glass, peering into the car’s interior. Like the Studebaker, he felt faded and worn, but his instincts kept the spark alive. He was closing in, beginning to unravel the affair, even though it appeared he was getting nowhere. He’d been close to the killer, close enough to have seen him, though he’d slipped by like smoke in the wind.
Elliot imagined the car restored, with new tires, a tight, level suspension, and a shiny coat of paint. But he didn’t want it too perfect. He wasn’t the type to sparkle something up only to put it in a glass case and look at it. For him, getting to know the car—feel its ride and hear its engine—was the main attraction. He wanted to drive it.
He wiped his hands and put the shop towel away so he could go inside and shower. After that he changed back into dress clothes and left his house for the department. The way he saw it, if there was a key to figuring this whole mess out it, was Lagayle Zimmerman.
When Elliot arrived at the department, he entered the building through the front door, and as he strode across the lobby he thought he saw someone standing near the elevators. The ball cap, the long hair, and the overalls… it had to be Nick. Just as Elliot started toward the elevators, someone stepped in front of him, and he lost sight of the person who he thought was Nick. When Elliot got there, whoever it had been was gone. Elliot made a quick search of the lobby then rode the elevator up and went to his desk. He’d just sat down when the phone rang. The voice that came through the phone was soft, nearly inaudible. “I need to speak to Detective Kenneth Elliot, please.”
Elliot’s heart skipped a beat. “Carmen?”
“Kenny, we need to talk. It’s important.”
Elliot paused. This was almost too good to be true, Carmen calling him. So why did he have a bad feeling about it? “All right.”
“Not like this, not over the phone. Could you meet me someplace?”
“Sure. I can wrap things up and be there in a couple of ho
urs.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve been thinking about this all day. So I decided to drive up. I’m almost there.”
A lump formed in Elliot’s throat. “In Tulsa?”
“I’m on the highway, the one that 51 turns into.”
“The Broken Arrow Expressway?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Elliot thought about it for a moment then decided to ask, “Have you seen Nick?”
“No, not since you were here. Chief Johnson asked me about it, too. Is something wrong?”
“It was probably just my imagination, but I thought I saw him in the department lobby just now.”
“I hope everything is all right with him.”
“I’m sure it is. He probably had some business to attend to and didn’t have time to tell anyone.”
“Maybe so,” she said, “but it isn’t like Nick to do that.”
Elliot gave Carmen directions to his house and left the station, wondering what it was that she considered important enough to drive all the way to Tulsa to discuss.
Elliot found Carmen sitting in the swing on his front porch, the daylight softly playing across her delicate features. In his presence she stood, and he was helpless to stop himself from closing the distance between them. She offered little resistance as he pulled her close and he immediately felt the warmth of her soft skin radiating through him. Suddenly, better judgment took over and he released her, stepping away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
She smoothed her hair back into place. “It’s all right.”
Elliot fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door. Once inside he flipped on the light. “Come on in.”
Elliot immediately saw how unkempt his house had become over the last few days. He preferred things neat and orderly, feeling nervous and out of sync when they were not. But the case had consumed him, taking all his time and energy. “You’ll have to excuse the place,” he said. “I’ve been a little busy. Actually, preoccupied would be closer to the truth.”