by Kip Cassino
It took Andy Rhodes and Sarah Won’t a week to determine that the mutilated fingerprints found in Tucson matched the full prints from Paul Abbott’s military records. Now more confirmation began to pour into their hands, as authorities from the other jurisdictions released evidence they had kept to themselves when the case against Taws and Abbott was less substantial.
Restarted local investigations in South Dakota and Idaho hadn’t been fruitful. Too much time had passed since the murders in Aberdeen and Nampa for witnesses who could be located to remember events clearly. Field work in New Mexico, Wyoming, Texas, and Oklahoma was far more productive. New fingerprints, additional witness statements, and possible DNA samples had been provided. The growing collection of raw evidence had to be evaluated, processed, and woven together to form a plausible basis for prosecution, once Taws and Abbott were apprehended.
Prell found himself in Tucson two or three times a week now, as he managed the evidence building process. He found the work stimulating―so different from the border smuggling wars he’d been part of in the past. He enjoyed the methodical, piece-by-piece assembly of evidence. Perhaps most of all, he relished his time with Sarah Won’t.
Prell had been a confirmed bachelor since his graduation from college. He’d had women in his life, but never considered serious long-term commitment. Now, his time with Sarah was beginning to change his mind. Elated over the evidence obtained from the V.A., Prell had asked Sarah to dinner to celebrate. She’d accepted, and he began to realize how different she was from other women he’d known―once she shed her uniform and took her hair out of those complex buns that held it in place at work.
One date had led to another, and soon they were meeting on a fairly regular basis. As the pair grew more accustomed to each other, they became more relaxed. Prell found himself fascinated by the tenacious intellect of Sarah’s Jesuit-trained mind. He was infatuated, and becoming more so, but he forced himself to move slowly. He knew his relationship with Sarah was still fragile, and hoped it would blossom. Even so, the investigation both were involved in had to trump any personal attachment for the time being. The two hadn’t met after work for more than a week on the afternoon she stood at his office door in Phoenix.
“Surprise!” she said. “I’m in town working with Andy, so I thought I’d stop by. I’ll be staying over. How about buying me dinner, Jack?”
Prell stood from his desk, a wide smile on his face. “Sarah,” he said, “I was just thinking about you. This is a surprise. Sure, I’ll buy us some dinner. Come on in and sit down.”
“Can’t right now,” Sarah said. “I still have some work to finish up. Come by my hotel around seven. I could use a good steak, and I’m dying to hear what you’ve been up to.”
“It’s a date,” Prell said, and wrote down the address of her hotel.
He was restless and distracted for the rest of the day. He made reservations at his favorite steakhouse before he drove home to shower and change clothes. He was at Sarah’s hotel right on time, knocking at the door to her suite. To his surprise the door was slightly ajar. “Is that you, Jack?” Sarah’s voice called from the suite’s interior. “Come in, close the door, and sit down. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Jack walked into the suite and sat down on a sofa. “I made reservations at a steakhouse I know,” he called over his shoulder.
“Cancel them,” said Sarah, her voice very close behind him. “We’ll be eating in.”
He rose and turned. Sarah stood at the entrance to the bedroom, a few feet away. She wore a very sheer, almost transparent peignoir, and nothing else. Her full, firm breasts strained against the gauzy fabric, and the rich dark thatch of her womanhood was plainly visible against her slim, milky thighs. “I thought you’d like to try something different tonight,” she said, smiling widely.
He moved to her, wrapped her in his arms and kissed her deeply. “Why …” he began to ask.
She sighed, grabbed his hand and led him into the bedroom. “We can talk later, Jack,” she purred. “Right now, you have to get out of those clothes so we can enjoy each other.” There was very little talking for a while after that.
Later, as he continued to explore her with his mouth and hands, she explained. “I felt like you were pulling back from me, Jack,” Sarah said. “I don’t want that to happen, so I decided to make a commitment.” She stopped to moan with pleasure as his clever fingers discovered her clitoris. Shifting slightly, she redirected his mouth from her neck to her breast. Her nipples felt to her like tiny, aching diamonds. “I’m yours,” she continued, stroking his penis. “If you don’t want me, tell me now, then go. If you do, please stay, so we can love each other more.” Jack didn’t leave. He knew in his heart and mind that he and Sarah would remain together as long as she would have him.
During the weeks that followed, Jack and Sarah’s love for each other blossomed. They worked hard at discretion, and agreed to only meet away from Tucson. It was difficult to maintain a veneer of disinterested professionalism when both wanted only to hold the other, but they managed.
In the meantime, additional F.B.I. resources were being applied to find Taws and Abbott―now that rapidly mounting evidence pointed to them as serial killers. By tracing license plates stolen in Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas, investigators had tracked Del Sweeney’s stolen truck as far as Lubbock. Were the men trying for the border at Brownville? Descriptions of both, now far more accurate, were supplied to police departments south and east. Border security was stiffened as well, with no immediate effect. Logic said the pair was somewhere within the enormity of Texas, east of Lubbock―an area pocked with tiny villages and small towns, with tens of thousands of hiding places. They could remain lost in its vastness until another murder caught them in law enforcement’s ever-searching spotlight.
Chapter 13
Seguin, Texas
October, 2017
A Month After the Captain Found Sixto Jimenez
Pauley and the Captain had spent the last month at Sixto’s compound, tucked away in the pecan orchards of Guadalupe County. As the Captain had hoped, his former truck driver had agreed to supply him and Pauley with new identities and even a new vehicle. “It will take some time to do it right,” he explained. “For you, I can only give the best. Stay here with me for a few weeks. When everything is done, you and your friend can be on your way.”
They were given a tree-shaded casita to stay in, and nothing much to do but stay out of the way of Sixto and his men. Their belongings from the motel had been brought to them, and Sweeney’s truck had disappeared―probably to someplace south of the border, the Captain guessed. A young woman brought them food twice a day, hearty Mexican fare with flavors and textures neither man had tried before. They could have had beer or liquor had they wanted it. For the most part both demurred, though the Captain allowed himself a beer once in a while.
Sixto’s operation fascinated the Captain. He had explained it after stopping by one afternoon to see how his guests were faring. “I started out as a truck driver when I got out of the Army,” Sixto told him. “It was all legit, I just hauled freight up from Monterrey. Did you know that all the zip cuffs used by cops are made there? Anyhow, some men approached me after a while. They told me I could make big money―very big money―if I carried crates they would give me over the border. I didn’t have to ask what was in the boxes. Still, the money was so much. I couldn’t pass it up, Captain Taws.”
“After a while,” he continued,” I started noticing problems these guys were having. Logistical problems!” He smiled, and slapped the Captain on the back. “The kind of problems you taught me about, Captain. So I showed these guys how I could save them money and move their product better. After all, it’s nothing but trucks and warehousing. Took a few years to build things up, but here we are. Pretty good, huh?”
The Captain marveled at the extent of Sixto’s efforts. Trucks came and went from the farm’s wareho
uses every hour of every day. There were extensive motor pool and maintenance facilities as well. “You must be responsible for all the dope in Chicago,” he said.
Sixto laughed. “No, Captain,” he said. “Most of that goes up the Mississippi on barges or into O’Hare in big, shiny jets. We take care of the smaller cities and towns between here and Saint Louis. It’s a very big business.”
“Are there other organizations pushing against you?” the Captain asked.
“At the edges, sometimes,” Sixto said. “Most of the time, our neighbors to the west and the Cubans east of us mind their own business. Believe me, my friend, there is plenty of money to go around. No, the only real competition we get is from Big Pharma and the Chinese.”
The Captain was astounded. “You mean the pharmaceutical companies and the doctors push narcotics?” he said.
“What do you think the opioid crisis everybody talks about really is?” Sixto said with a smile. “Those docs pushed more drugs than anybody in Mexico, and some of them are still at it. The Chinese are cranking out the fentanyl too, and sending it through the mail.”
The sheer magnitude of narcotics moving through the east Texas pecan groves was shocking to the Captain, until he thought it through. If secure places like prisons can’t keep drugs out, he reasoned, how can anyplace else deter them? As long as people want this stuff, there will be suppliers. The whole concept of a nation poisoning itself sickened him. He had to give Sixto credit, at least, for doing a good job.
More than a week went by before the Captain saw his host again. Then, an armed man took him to Sixto’s office. This time, the ex-trucker was less relaxed. “You want to tell me why you and your ugly friend are on the run?” he asked bluntly, sitting behind his big desk.
Thoughts tumbled through the Captain’s mind. Should he bluff? He decided not to try. For all his friendliness so far, Sixto was a dangerous man. If he believed he was being duped or crossed, the Captain and Pauley would both end up dead in a ditch.
“I think the feds are looking for us,” the Captain said. “We’re suspected of several murders over the past ten years.”
Sixto nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t try to lie, amigo,” he said. “It would have been bad for you if you had. You’re right. The F.B.I. is looking for both of you, for murders that stretch back to 2007.” He waved at some papers on his desk. “I got the files right here. Did you do those murders, Captain?”
“It doesn’t matter whether it was me or Pauley,” the Captain said. “We’re both implicated. One of us is as guilty as the other.”
“So, one of you is a serial killer?”
“It’s not that simple,” the Captain said. “For a long time, Pauley and I have been living on life’s rough bottom edge. We mind our own business, and try not to make trouble. There have been men who have pushed us, pushed us too hard. When that happens, we push back.”
Sixto frowned. “So when you leave here, are you going to continue killing any assholes who push you around? Is that your plan?”
The Captain shook his head. “No,” he said. “That’s not my plan at all. With the papers I’ve asked for, my plan is to move east―far from here. I’ll get a trucking job, and get Pauley the kind of help he needs. There won’t be any more violence. I swear it.”
Sixto nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. You saved my life. I owe you. Besides, I like you, Captain Taws―you and your shy, ugly friend. I’ll help you, just like I promised. When I do, you must keep your word. Run far from here, as fast as you can. Hide in your new identities. The feds are looking for you, my friend. They are looking for you hard.”
A week later, Ken Captain and his friend Albert Pauley stopped for the night outside New Orleans. This ended the first leg of a seventeen-hundred-mile trip that would finish near Philadelphia, after two more days of hard driving. Their nondescript grey pickup had Delaware plates, and both men had driver’s licenses from that state. The forged documentation Sixto had gotten them was perfect and complete. It included not only driver’s licenses, but also birth certificates, social security cards, high school diplomas, car registration and insurance documents, as well as paid utility bills from previous addresses. Against his better judgement, the Captain retained his and Pauley’s V.A. cards, though he hid them well. They’d need meds wherever they went, and Sixto had not been able to provide forgeries. He was also given a credit card, but Sixto warned him to destroy it within a week―as soon as their journey was near its end.
The Captain had Pauley practice writing his new name on a legal pad, hundreds of times to sear it into his memory. He called him by his new name several times a day, to make sure his friend reacted to it. Pauley did the same for him. Thankfully, the last names they’d been given matched what they called each other anyway. Adoption was relatively easy.
As the miles rolled beneath the grey truck’s tires, the Captain thought about his confrontation with Sixto, about which of them was a serial murderer. His relationship with Pauley was hard to explain, he knew. There was symbiosis between him and his scarred buddy, a bond only soldiers caught in battle together could know. It didn’t matter who wielded the knife, not really. The men who had died had opened the gates to hell themselves, he decided. He fervently hoped he and Pauley could avoid such people in the future. He would try and design their lives so that they could.
Chapter 14
Phoenix, Arizona
November, 2017
“It’s like they fell off the edge of the planet,” Jack Prell said grimly. He sat in the office of his agent in charge, discussing the progress―or lack of it―in the Taws/Abbott investigation. “We’ve got some great evidence developed, even some witness statements, but once these guys hit Texas, they disappeared.”
His AIC shrugged. He knew Prell had done a superb job on the case so far. The evidence was tightening. Once the men were apprehended, prosecution could begin immediately. Still, as often happens in wide-ranging investigations, delays mar the orderly progression of justice. Weeks or months can go by without activity, while witness statements grow stale and needed attention is wrenched in other directions. “It’s too bad, Jack,” he said. “There’s nothing more we can do right now. There’s another case in your in-box―an interstate car theft operation. It’s tricky. I’d like you to take a long look at it.”
Prell nodded, then rose. “I’ll get right on it,” he said. “I will need a few days off over Thanksgiving, if you can swing it. I’d like to go down to Tucson and spend some time with Sarah and her family.”
The AIC smiled. “You and Sarah,” he said. “That’s probably the best thing that’s come out of this case. Is it getting serious, Jack?”
Prell blushed. “If it’s up to me, she’ll be Mrs. Prell,” he said. “I’m just taking it slowly so I don’t scare her off. Her family is old-world Polish. There’s still some hoops left to jump through.”
“Sure, take the time off,” the AIC said. “Just make sure I’m invited to the wedding.”
*****
San Antonio, Texas
Miguel Obregon languished in his cell at the federal holding facility. Thoughts scurried through his mind like small animals caught in a cage. He should have stayed in Brownsville. He should never have given up his old job to work for Sixto. If it hadn’t been for the money … so much money! Now the money didn’t matter. He’d be tried in a federal court and sent to prison for a long time.
The assault had been well-planned. Trucks like all the others that went through Sixto’s farm pulled in―except these were filled with federales. They jumped out before the trucks even stopped moving: ICE, FBI, DEA, Border Patrol, cops. There must have been more than a hundred, all in body armor with those big long guns. There was some shooting, but not much. Dying wouldn’t protect anything. He heard that Sixto and a few others had escaped into the pecan groves. He had no doubt they’d be found, and end up in cells just like the one he was in
.
Miguel knew he had only one chance, one hope to shift odds slightly in his favor. If he could give these people information, information they wanted, things would go better for him. What did he know that would be of value? He wracked his brain. He was not a high-ranking member of Sixto’s organization, just a gunman used to threaten the drivers and smugglers―an errand boy, really.
Suddenly, a picture flashed through Miguel’s mind―the vision of a handcuffed gringo standing in front of Sixto’s desk, just a few short weeks ago. Miguel smiled. Perhaps he had something to trade, after all. He called for the guard.
*****
Phoenix, Arizona
The Next Day
As he slammed down his phone, Jack Prell smiled. Here was the break he’d been waiting for, hoping for. A major drug bust near San Antonio the day before had snagged lots of low ranking soldiers. One of them had an interesting story to tell. Several weeks ago, he told authorities, two men had appeared at the farm where he stayed―an important narcotics staging area, where illicit drugs were shipped as far north as Saint Louis. According to the hoodlum, one of those who arrived had saved the life of the criminal in charge of the place, a man named Sixto Jimenez, when both were in the Army. Sixto had agreed to furnish the men with forged identity papers and a “clean” vehicle, so they could make their way east. The informant also said that one of the men was badly scarred.
Prell picked up his phone again, punching the number of his administrative assistant. “Book me a flight to San Antonio, Vicky,” he told her. It was time to get this case moving again.
*****
Cero Azul, Veracruz, Mexico
Two Weeks Later
Jimmy Perez, the man who used to be Sixto Jimenez, rose from his bed at the Hotel San Miguel. There was much to do today. This morning would be spent with his real estate agent, looking for the perfect spot along the Atlantic coast for his new home. After siesta, he’d meet with the architect he’d hired to design the structure. He wanted nothing too pretentious. Security was a major concern, as was a sweeping ocean view along his private beach. The evening would be spent quietly, sipping tequila at a table off the plaza, watching the life of the town flow around him.