by Kip Cassino
Chapter 23
Five Days After Pauley’s Death
Fayetteville, North Carolina
As he walked from the State Highway Patrol’s Troop “B” headquarters, Jack Prell’s mood was dark. More bodies to count—three found so far—including a young state trooper who left a wife and two children behind. The other victims—two middle-aged men—hadn’t been identified yet. Both were roughly dressed and wore heavy work boots—probably road workers of some sort, Prell guessed. Truck drivers? Road maintenance? Impossible to say. No identification of any kind was found on or near the bodies. No missing persons had been reported that matched the men’s descriptions from anywhere in the local area. Both had been shot with a hand-gun, probably the trooper’s pistol. The caliber of the bullets removed was right. One had been shot twice, both close range head shots. The other had been riddled with eight separate wounds from further away. Did one of the men put up a fight? Prell shook his head angrily.
Questions! Nothing but questions with no answers, while Taws still remained free and running, now presumably armed with a small arsenal from the trooper’s cruiser. Yet another question: how was he running? What was he running in? Was it the vehicle his latest victims had been driving? Had he pulled them over, using the dead trooper’s patrol car? Possibly, but there was no hard evidence—just more bodies and a track that still pointed south.
The Highway Patrol found the wrecked patrol car and the dead men near it before they found the trooper. Searchers carefully backtracked from that crime scene, until the tire tracks and disturbed soil under a large tree thirty miles north on I-95 pointed to the abandoned grey truck, hastily concealed in brush thirty feet from the edge of the highway’s shoulder. The shotgun-blasted body of Trooper Coombs was found in the truck’s bed. His belt and pistol were missing. A search of the truck’s glove compartment yielded a Delaware registration for “Kenneth Captain.” It was a well-done forgery, of course. Fingerprint evidence in the truck and a discarded shell casing that matched one of the dead farmer’s shotgun casings from Delaware offered firm circumstantial evidence as to who the trooper’s murderer had been.
All valuable evidence, but of little immediate use to Prell. He already held enough solid proof to convict Taws for murder several times over. None of it mattered unless the lunatic was captured. It was essential to find out where Taws was headed and how he was planning to get himself there. The killer was obviously heading south. He was surely beyond the South Carolina state line by now—unless he had circled back, as predators sometimes do.
Prell dismissed that last thought from his mind. Indecision could only lead to confusion and inactivity. He had to make up his mind and act. He chose to follow his quarry’s track south. To that end, four steps had to be taken immediately. First, he had to reinvigorate the task force which he’d so painstakingly assembled several months ago. That would start with a call to his friend Leo Cardiff, in Tucson. Next, he had to contact his AIC in Phoenix, to set the wheels in motion for assistance from F.B.I. field offices in North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia. He also had to contact the South Carolina Highway Patrol immediately, to alert them to the murderer loose somewhere on their roads. Finally, the two dead men found yesterday had to be identified as quickly as possible. Once they were, much more would become clear about how Taws was making his way south. His decisions made, Prell felt better, more focused. He turned back to the Troop “B” building. He needed to borrow a desk and a phone. It would still be early in Arizona.
Later that day, Prell met with several North Carolina Highway Patrol senior officers—captains and lieutenant colonels, for the most part. “I know your first priority is to apprehend Taws,” he told them. “The task force I’m part of has been chasing him and his partner across the nation. He is a serial killer who we know has murdered more than a dozen people over the past ten years. If his track holds true, he’s already beyond the South Carolina state line. We’re now in contact with the Highway Patrol and the F.B.I. field offices there. They will try to head Taws off before he reaches Georgia. Our primary mission must be to identify the two men we found dead near the wrecked cruiser. If we know who they are and what they were driving, we’ll stand a much better chance of stopping this maniac.”
A senior trooper shook his head. “Let’s assume for a moment these men were truckers,” he said. “They could be, based on their clothing. There are more than 300,000 trucking companies that regularly run vehicles through this state, and that’s not counting the independent drivers. Most of these companies are small. Nine out of ten have six vehicles or less. Some of the trucks come from the other side of the nation. That’s a mighty big haystack to sort through, if you’re in a hurry—and we are.”
“We can try to even the odds some,” Prell replied. “The task force is already looking for fingerprint matches on IAFIS, the national fingerprint database. If either of the men was in the military, or had a criminal conviction, his prints can be found. Our people are some of the best at this,” he said, thinking of Sarah and how he missed her. “We’ve also gotten in touch with the American Trucking Association and the Teamsters’ Union. They’ve both agreed to carry photos of the victims on their websites. I’m asking your troopers to distribute fliers with the dead men’s photos at truck stops. Perhaps somebody at one of them will recognize a face. There’s one more step we’re taking. Photos of the dead men are being distributed to TV stations in the Carolinas, Georgia, and Virginia. Perhaps a family member or an employer will recognize one or both of the men.”
“How soon will we know if any of this has worked?” a trooper asked.
“The IAFIS scan will take a few days,” Prell told him. “The TV airings are up to the individual stations, but they generally put them out within a day.”
“If none of this bears fruit, what then?”
“Then we’ll expand the TV coverage, maybe ask the networks to help,” Prell said. “As you indicated, these victims could be from California for all we know. Let’s hope they’re a little more local than that.”
By the next day, pictures of the unknown murder victims had been broadcast over twenty T.V. stations in three states. Hundreds of leads came in, but none panned out. A day later, Sarah Won’t was more successful with her IAFIS search. She got a positive match to one of the men—identified as Spencer Early, who had been arrested for domestic violence in Lynchburg, Virginia, three years ago.
A quick call to the Lynchburg Police Department established that Mr. Early worked as a helper and assistant driver for Mason-Dickson Freight, a local trucking company that operated throughout the southeast. The MDF dispatcher confirmed that Early was on a run with his driver, Rodney Burkett. More checking revealed the truck was already overdue at a factory in an Atlanta suburb. Drivers’ licenses confirmed the identity of the two men. They had been driving a Peterbilt towing a flatbed trailer loaded with twenty tons of steel plate. Prell made sure the license numbers on the truck were immediately transmitted to South Carolina Highway Patrol and the Georgia State Patrol. “Maybe we can finally get ahead of this bastard,” Prell said hopefully.
*****
Four Hundred Miles South
The Captain had planned to spend the night in the truck, after leaving I-95 near Savannah to pick up Route 301. He stopped for dinner at Richmond Hill, then kept driving until fatigue began to overtake him. Before he could rest, he discovered the necessity to air out and clean the cab’s sleeping area. The place was a pig-sty. He threw the noisome sheets away, as well as the foul, grimy clothing that littered the area around the bunk. He drove a few miles further with all windows open, trying to air the cab out. His efforts were not sufficient. He gave up and found a motel, promising himself to locate a truck-stop somewhere in north Florida where he could give the cab a thorough cleaning. Right now, the idea of lying on that bunk made his skin crawl.
From the moment Pauley died and he decided to make his run, the Captain’s destina
tion had been clear to him. He would end his flight in the town of Fort Pierce, on Florida’s Atlantic coast, just north of West Palm Beach. He’d never been there, but one of the men in his army unit back in Afghanistan used to rhapsodize about the place. “Hutchinson Island is as close as a man can get to heaven without wings,” his driver used to tell him. “The sand on the beach is like white sugar,” he would say. “They got conch and every kind of fish that’s in the sea to eat. At night, you make love to the sound of the big waves coming in. Paradise, man. Paradise.”
The Captain wasn’t sure what he’d heard was his idea of heaven. He was certain that anyone who came looking for him there would find themselves in hell. He was fairly sure those who hunted him had discovered the identities of the two truckers he had killed by now (he regretted having to use the trooper’s pistol—clean death needed a knife). That meant they’d be looking for the truck from now on. Even so, he believed he was a state line ahead of his pursuers. As long as he was careful, they wouldn’t catch him before he reached his destination. That would give him time to prepare a thoughtful, proper greeting for them.
After five days without his meds, the Captain knew he was no longer sane. He’d had intrusive thoughts and flashbacks for the past few days, and some had lasted a while. An enormous black dog—like the ones that used to haunt his dreams—sat beside his bed now, panting and growling as though it was real, showing him blood-red eyes, a lolling tongue, and razor-sharp fangs. Maybe the black dog was really there and always had been, the Captain thought. Maybe the drugs had blinded him to reality until they wore off. He felt strong, powerful—released from any restraints that had bound him in the past. He spoke to the dog. In his fevered mind, the dog howled back.
He mentally inventoried his arsenal as he lay in his motel bed. He’d keep the two shotguns on him, but use them sparingly to blunt any flanking assaults. He had a big surprise planned for the first responders, when they showed up. After that, he’d start plinking his enemies off with the AR-15 he had found in the cruiser’s trunk, good for fifty or a hundred yards range at least. That would stand them up as soon as they tried to leave their vehicles. They’d have body armor—some of them, anyhow—but so did he. When they got really close, he’d use up the shotguns and the rifle, then kill as many as he could with the pistol. He’d preposition ammunition so he could fall back without running out. In the end, after everything else was gone, he would still have his knife. The Captain smiled. When the black dog finally took him to hell, he’d bring along lots of company with him.
Chapter 24
A Week After Pauley’s Death
U.S. Route 1
Five Miles South of Vero Beach
The sun was rising in the sky on a beautiful, almost cloudless Florida day. A Highway Patrol trooper watched attentively as the big green tractor-trailer rumbled by his position. He’d been warned not to engage the truck if he saw it, just report its location and wait for backup. He followed his orders, which had been emphatic. Within ten minutes four patrol cars and a big, armored SWAT van sped by him—a confusion of flashing lights and wailing sirens. All that for one guy in a truck? he thought, shaking his head as he left his spot beside the road to join them.
Just south of Oslo, Route 1 takes a long curve west and south before straightening again. As the police caravan raced into that curve, they were confronted with a shocking sight—a large tractor-trailer rig was backing toward them at high speed. Almost instantaneously, before any brakes could be applied or evasive action taken, the steel plate-weighted flatbed trailer was among them. The first cruisers where crushed and ruined by their hundred mile-per-hour impact with what had become a thirty-ton battering ram. Those close behind smashed into the lead cars as they themselves were demolished, compounding the destruction. The SWAT van careened off the road and turned over in a ditch. Only one cruiser, driven by the trooper who had just reported the truck’s location, was able to avoid hitting any of the wrecked, twisted metal in front of him and skid to a safe stop. Overwhelmed by the tragedy around him, he sat motionless for a few seconds, trying to make sense of what he had seen before calling in a report. He shook his head to clear his mind, but too much time had passed. The Captain had already opened his cruiser’s door. His throat was slit before he was sure what had happened to him.
The Captain quickly rushed to disengage the mangled flatbed trailer from the green truck. It had served its purpose, and was crushed and fused to the lethal wreckage it had caused. Now, he had to hurry to his destination—so he’d have time to set up his defenses. He had done well, and killed at least one of his enemies fairly. The black dog that loped beside him howled with glee.
Less than two hours later, Jack Prell and another F.B.I. agent were landed close to the disaster by helicopter. Route 1 had been closed between Vero Beach and Fort Pierce since the first reports of the appalling collision had been verified. Cars from the Florida Highway Patrol and local law enforcement littered the scene, along with ambulances and several fire trucks. Everyone he saw seemed stunned. As he looked before him, the only recognizable vehicles were the flatbed trailer, although its rear was smashed and badly buckled, and a single patrol car. The cruisers destroyed by the trailer did not resemble automobiles at all. They were simply wrinkled, flattened pieces of metal—like gigantic, crushed soda cans. It was impossible to guess how many cars had been involved.
Prell looked further, and saw a black, van-like vehicle overturned in a ditch across the highway. A trooper, senior by the gold oak leaves on his collar, was standing near it. He walked to the man’s side. “How many?” he asked, showing his I.D.
“Seven dead in the cars, one more in the SWAT van,” the Highway Patrol major told him. “You wouldn’t believe it, but two troopers made it out of that crushed steel alive. Took half an hour to pull them out. They’re badly injured, may not survive. We’ve already medevac’d them. Everybody in the van besides the dead driver was injured, but they should pull through alright. One trooper had his throat cut with a knife, right there in his cruiser. Still had his seatbelt on. He’s dead too,” He pulled off his hat and ran his hand through his short-cropped grey hair. “It’s a bad day for Florida, agent,” he said, frowning deeply. “A bad day.” He turned and walked away, shaking his head.
Prell caught up with the major again, a few minutes later. His nametag read “Halliday.” He seemed less upset than he had been when they’d spoken last, and pointed to a map on the fender of his cruiser. “Yeah,” he explained, “we’ve got roadblocks up at Fort Pierce, and another one further south, outside Jupiter. We’ve got heavy patrols running all the way to West Palm Beach on Route 1, and we’re covering the turnpike, I-95, and A1A as well. County cops are helping out, so we’ve got plenty of manpower out there. If he’s still on the road, we’ll catch him.”
“Do you think he’s still on the road?” Prell asked.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Halliday said. “We’re talking about a crazy man here, and we don’t know where he wants to get himself to. All we know is south. If it were me, I’d be hiding on a beach somewhere south of here, but I’m not crazy. We’ve already alerted the local police and the county sheriff’s departments all the way down to Miami-Dade to look hard for the truck. Maybe they’ll find him.”
Prell looked at his watch. “It’s been almost three hours,” he said. “He could be a hundred miles from here.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got air up as well,” Halliday said, “fixed wing and choppers both. They haven’t seen him either. My bet is he’s found a place to stop somewhere. If he has, that’s good. We’ll find him before the day’s over. I’ll guarantee you that, Agent Prell. When we do, we’ll have enough men nearby to bottle him up and take him down. I want this son of a bitch alive. I want him to rot in prison and then die.”
An hour earlier, the Captain had eased his damaged truck off Route 1 at Fort Pierce, north of the roadblock already set up to stop him. He chugged over the Gulfstream A
venue bridge to Hutchinson Island, turned left on Hernando Street, and right on Seagull Drive. There, he slowed his tattered ride to a stop. There were several houses around the cul-de-sac front of him. They all looked much the same—garages beneath boxy living areas above, big windows, large back yards fronting the beach across the street. Most had two or more cars in their driveways, but the yellow house farthest down the block showed only one. That would be his target, he decided. He eased his truck into gear and rolled slowly down the narrow street.
Marilyn Proctor looked out her kitchen window to see a large, battered green truck pull noisily into her driveway. Puzzled, she called for her husband, who was dozing on the living room couch. “John,” she called, “there’s a big truck in our driveway.”
“Probably lost his way and turning around,” her husband groggily replied. He’d been dreaming about an evening he’d had in Atlantic City with his first wife, Evelyn. She had been a pistol.
“No,” Marilyn insisted, “No. He’s stopped. It looks like he’s getting out. You’d better go down and see what he wants.”
“O.K., O.K.!” John said, standing. He might as well go down there. His dream had already faded from memory. All he remembered was it had been nice. Proctor was a tall man, with sparse grey hair and brown eyes, whose belly had expanded with his seventy years. “I’m going,” he said over his shoulder as he put on his shoes and walked down the steps to his front door.
John Proctor loved his little Florida beach house. If it had been up to him, they’d have moved down here full time two years ago. If only Marilyn would let go of her friends in Syracuse! The summers up there were hot, too—hot and stifling, and no beautiful beach around, either. He was still shaking his head about the situation as he walked out his door. Sure enough, there stood a big green truck. It looked beaten-up, like it had been in some kind of accident. The man who drove it (or so John guessed) was coming around it toward him. He was a mid-sized guy with short, greying hair, who looked fit. “Hi,” the man said pleasantly, smiling. “Do you own a generator?”