by Wayne Zurl
At 1:35, only scant moments stylishly late for the meeting he had called, Chief Deputy Ryan Leary stepped behind the podium and tapped the microphone. After a muffled squeal caused by being too close to the amplifier and the three amplified bumps his taping created, he addressed the crowd.
“Thank you all for attending this meeting. I plan to bring everyone up to date on the progress the task force has been making and then introduce Chief Sam Jenkins of Prospect PD to tell you about the recent homicide in his jurisdiction that has all the earmarks of the person we’ve called the Riverside Strangler. And finally, I’ll tell you about a new measure I’ve taken that should help us move further in our joint investigations.”
He delivered his preamble and transitioned seamlessly into a recap of the progress (or lack thereof) made by the task force without a hint of regional accent. Previously, I learned that Leary had lived all his life in Blount County, but had inherited his speaking voice from his parents who were originally from northern Ohio.
I had never liked nor trusted Leary. He was the dangerous combination of a competent, but grandstanding cop and ruthless politician. And he looked the part. A couple inches shorter than me, I guessed him to be five-ten, a little stocky, but not fat—more like a power lifter than a ball player. Everything about Leary was conservative looking, from his salt and pepper hair parted on the left and always neatly combed to the matching mustache on a ruggedly handsome face scarred by adolescent acne. But looks can be deceiving. If I had to choose two words to describe Ryan Leary, they wouldn’t be businesslike and conservative; they’d be potentially dangerous.
“But now,” Leary said, “I’ll turn the discussion over to someone you all know, someone whose law enforcement experience goes back decades and spans the entire eastern half of the United States—the chief of the Prospect Police Department.”
I stood up and tried to appear modest. That was some intro. I half expected Clint Eastwood to take a spot at the podium before me. I thought modest, but not humble. I was only one of the jugglers in Leary’s minstrel show, but I didn’t want anyone to forget that these once-in-a-lifetime serial murder cases happened all too often where I used to work.
An old public speaker’s maxim: Never miss an opportunity to get a laugh, so I attempted to capitalize on Leary’s words.
“I guess the man that Chief Leary described couldn’t make it, so you’ll have to be satisfied with me.”
That got a few snickers, but not the chorus of belly laughs I expected.
I began again, “Good morning.” My presentation consisted of a description of fishing the body out of the babbling waters of Crystal Creek to learning the identity of the victim.
“At this stage, we’re conducting a complete background investigation on Ms. Rosanna Wakefield and have a computer expert examining her laptop which has more password protection than a CIA cyber dead-drop.”
Those snickers turned to hearty chuckles from the media people who wanted their colleagues to think they knew what a dead-drop was.
“As soon as we know more, I’ll inform you and the task force members of our progress. Thanks for listening, and now I’ll turn the party back to our master of ceremonies, Ryan Leary.”
Leary took over by giving me a look someone might reserve for an older brother who drank too much and often made a fool of himself at family dinners.
“Thank you, Chief. Now that you’re part of this task force, the Riverside Strangler has one more formidable adversary.”
The words weren’t quite out of Leary’s mouth when Lew Schmecke pushed his chair from the table in preparation of making a grand appearance.
“Next,” Leary said, “I’d like to introduce someone who I’ve brought on board to assist in our investigation of these heinous murders. Some of you will recognize him from all the national exposure he’s gotten.”
The term ‘brought on board’ meant hired for much more than he’s worth. The national exposure meant prime time potato chip commercials.
“Please welcome former New York detective and now prominent private investigator, Lew Schmecke.”
Please welcome? For chrissakes, was this a press conference or a segment of the Tonight Show?
As Schmecke blabbed about the expertise he’d bring to the investigation, I grew tired of his self-serving rhetoric and tuned him out to mull over what I knew about Ryan Leary, our Leader of the Pack.
He was fifty-three years old and had twenty-eight years with the Blount County Sheriff’s Office. Like everyone else on that job, he began his career in the patrol division. From what I had heard, Ryan took an early interest in being more of an investigator than the average cop on the beat. He racked up more arrests and gained a reputation as a hard charger. From there, he was promoted to detective, but didn’t stay with the sheriff’s CID very long. Long-serving District Attorney Calvin Pitts requested that Leary be assigned to his office as an investigator—I assumed at the behest of some heavy-duty political benefactor. After a few years, Leary was promoted to sergeant and remained at the DA’s office as a senior investigator. After a few more years, he was promoted to the rank of lieutenant. The DA chose to keep him on board and in an unprecedented move, filled the recently vacated position of chief DA’s investigator with a sheriff’s deputy—newly promoted Lieutenant Ryan Leary.
That lasted a while, and Leary enhanced his reputation for flamboyant police work. One member of the Sheriff’s department for whom I have respect, told me that whenever Leary and his boys showed up, you smelled two things: his cigar and a rat. Leary always brought trouble along with him, from dodgy searches to knuckled-up prisoners.
When Sheriff Joe Don Hartung’s predecessor was voted out of office, DA Calvin Pitts insured that he’d have a secure stranglehold on county law enforcement. Prior to Joe Don getting sworn in, Pitts went to the county mayor and requested that his man Ryan Leary be appointed to chief deputy. When the county’s chief executive considered that the newly elected sheriff had absolutely zero law enforcement experience, he considered the DA’s move as altruistic and logical and installed Leary as the top uniformed cop before his boss ever arrived. In essence, Joe Don would be the elected figurehead, but Ryan Leary would run the department.
I felt John Gallagher poke me in the ribs, and I snapped out of my daydream.
“Fatso just finished, Boss. This thing will be breaking up in a minute.”
John was just about on target. Schmecke stepped away from the podium, and Leary made his closing remarks. For a few moments, the media personnel scattered, leaving the rear of the room still cluttered with sheriff’s department brass and task force investigators.
Gallagher and I stood up, and John Leckmanski caught my eye. He made a motion with his head, pointing toward the exit—something I took for him wanting a word. I nodded, and he disappeared.
As many of the task force members enthusiastically flocked around Schmecke, the legendary detective, I decided to take a powder before the great meeting of minds kicked off at three o’clock.
“What do you say, Tonto?” I asked John. “Want to get some air before we have to listen to more bullshit?”
“Right behind you, Kemosabe.”
We were only half way out of the room when Ryan Leary called.
“Sam, can you hang on a minute? I want you to meet Lew.”
Gallagher snorted. We both turned. Leary stood only a few feet away.
“We were just heading to the men’s room,” I said.
“I understand. This will just take a minute. Let me get Lew over here.”
When Leary turned to fetch the legendary one, I told Gallagher to run an errand.
“I think Leckmanski wants us. Find him outside and tell him I’ll only be a minute.”
“Will do, Boss.”
I faced the podium and watched the sea of humanity part as the county’s top cop presented his new hired hand to me.
“Sam, have you ever met Lew Schmecke?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said, with all t
he enthusiasm of a salmon who just finished spawning.
“Well, you heard his bio when I introduced him. Lew, this is Sam Jenkins, chief of Prospect PD.”
“How are you?” I asked, maintaining my level of excitement.
He extended a hand that I reluctantly shook.
“I understand you were on the job in Nu Yawk.” Schmecke spoke, wearing a grin as perpetual as the stubble on his chin. “Whereabouts?”
I was sure he already knew, but I indulged him. “On the Island.”
The grin turned into a smirk. “Oh, yeah? I worked Manhattan South Detectives.”
It was a common enough occurrence. Many cops who worked in Manhattan looked down on the rest of us slobs who covered the remainder of the metro area. They generally didn’t see much reason for cops to work on Long Island, but they thought more of us than those assigned to Staten Island.
“Uh-huh.” I tried to sound as unimpressed as humanly possible.
Schmecke smelled of pungent aftershave and dishonesty. It took me all of three seconds to decide that I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw a pregnant hippopotamus.
He was short enough to make me think he joined the PD after they relaxed the height requirement. He was on the pudgy side, but not obese, with just enough paunch to add jowls and a double chin to the face he hid with an everlasting four day stubble.
His fawn-colored suit—one with a pale purple pinstripe—camouflaged his chubby body well. I assumed that the high-tech PI business was good because those threads might have ventured into the five-figure bracket. It gets like that when you use the higher echelons of wool, something buttery to the touch and quite silky. Lovely to look at and delightful to wear, but so delicate that it wouldn’t last beyond the turn of the next fashion season.
“You could probably use some help with this new homicide you got,” he said.
It wasn’t a question and more of an assessment than an offer.
“We might. I’ll see what I can connect between our vic and the previous killings. I’ll let Ryan know what we learn. If we hit a stone wall, I’ll raise my hand and yell for help.”
Schmecke half snorted and nodded, at what I wasn’t sure. “Don’t the county investigate felonies for your little departments?”
I thought he put too much emphasis on little, but that may have just been me.
“We do our own in Prospect.”
“Oh, yeah? Have much luck?”
Leary jumped in, perhaps sensing that a guy with whom he had to live might use his new hired monkey as a fence post.
“Sam’s got quite a clearance rate, Lew. He’s done exemplary work in the… How many years have you worked here, Sam?”
“Almost five.” I wondered if Schmecke knew what exemplary meant, but I didn’t explain.
“That’s good,” Schmecke said. “Nu Yawk street smarts versus down home skells, no?”
I nodded and cracked an obligatory smile. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to visit the boy’s room before the task force tango hits high gear.”
I found John Gallagher standing next to the WNXX News van alongside John Leckmanski and an attractive blonde.
“Hi, guys,” I said.
“How ya doin’, Sam?” Leckmanski said and extended a hand. I shook it. “You know Karen Walters, don’t you?”
“Sure, we’ve met.” To Karen, I said, “How are you?”
She nodded and offered me a hand. “Good, thanks. Nice to see you.”
At about thirty-five, Karen was one of the old-timers at WNXX.
Looking again at John, I said, “I smelled a little intrigue in there, Polish boy. What’s up?”
“We figured you’d know the real story about why the sheriff hired this guy Schmecke.”
I shook my head. “I don’t, but I’ll make two guesses. Leary probably did the hiring and not for reasons of efficiency, but because Schmecke is a famous face. I’m not convinced he’s dreadfully competent, but thanks to TV commercials, he’s a familiar personality in households across the country—for this year, at least.”
“Private investigator and snack salesman,” Karen said sarcastically.
I nodded once. “And while Schmecke may not see the possibility yet, if those murders go unsolved, Leary will fire his pudgy little ass and toss him to the wolves. Leary can use Schmecke to create a win-win situation. If Schmecke helps find the Strangler, Leary will bask in the public knowledge that he chose a winner. If Schmecke flops, Leary will take himself off the hook by saying that the legendary detective claimed his brilliance would find the killer. As chief deputy, Leary reassigned his task force guys back to regular duty to focus on new cases which were getting backlogged. After that, he can reevaluate the Strangler business—either resurrect a task force, let it go cold or, as a last resort, ask the Feds for help.”
“Schmecke’s a blowhard,” Gallagher added. “He always liked to take credit for other cops’ work.”
I shrugged. “He’s probably not useless, but based on our inside information, he’s highly overrated—thanks to himself.”
“If Leary were responsible for solving the Riverside Strangler murders, he could stick a big feather in his cap,” Karen said.
“You bet,” I said. “And he’d capitalize on it. For years, Joe Don Hartung has hinted that he’d like to run for some other office—either something in the state house or the US Congress. Leary knows that and may want to be sheriff. If he pulls off a coup here, he may have the horsepower to nudge Joe Don out and run for the top spot.”
“He runs the department now, doesn’t he?” Leckmanski asked.
“Sure he does. But the chief deputy just collects a salary. He doesn’t get the opportunity to redirect excess campaign contributions to furnish and subsidize his home office. You ever see Hartung’s house?”
Leckmanski laughed. Karen shook her head.
“Do you have any good leads on the Prospect killer you didn’t mention in there?” Karen asked.
“While I’d love to smirk and tell you something you’d have to keep under your hat for a while, no. I’m clueless at this moment. But I’ve got a computer from our vic. She was an enterprising working girl running her own show. Maybe she kept secret but detailed records.”
Big mouth Gallagher added, “Yeah, but we don’t know how to bypass her passwords. We gotta find a computer expert for help.”
“Can’t your IT guy help you?” Karen asked.
“Prospect’s IT man is a pretty good technician, but he’s not a forensic hacker. I need a real cyber weasel to make the most of what we’ve got.”
Leckmanski grinned like a snake with a fat mouse in his sights. “Have I got a guy for you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Someone from the station?” I asked.
“No, he’s on his own. He’s very good, but you might call him a little shady.”
I grinned a little, too. “I can live with a shady super hero as long as he uses his magical powers for the greater good.”
“Then Lonnie Ray is your man. You asked for a weasel. In the computer world, he’s a wolverine.”
“Lonnie Ray is his name?”
“Lonnie Ray Wilson. I don’t have his number with me, but you can find him in the Yellow Pages. Calls himself Ether Technologies and Investigations. Tell him I sent you.”
I heard my new computer expert before I saw him. The morning after John Leckmanski gave me the tip, Lonnie Ray Wilson showed up in the lobby of Prospect PD and introduced himself to Bettye.
“You have an Officer Jenkins here?” he asked.
I envisioned her dropping a pair of granny glasses onto her desktop, putting her blonde locks in motion to exhibit a little haughtiness and to look more alluring, and saying, “We have a Chief Jenkins.”
She didn’t disappoint me.
“Must be the one,” Wilson said.
“And who shall I say is calling?”
“Mr. Lonnie Ray Wilson. Ether Technologies and Investigations. He called me.”
; “One moment, please,” the good sergeant said. “I’ll see if he’s in.”
From the sound of Lonnie Ray’s voice, I surmised that he was African-American, but I heard no touch of Ebonics or the jive one might expect from a human wolverine. He sounded intelligent and professional.
The intercom on my phone buzzed.
“Chief, there’s a Mr. Wilson to see you.”
“I heard you out there. You sounded like the personal assistant of the US Attorney General. I’m so impressed I could just plotz.”
“Yes, sir, shall I send him in?”
“You shall have our resident leprechaun escort him. That’ll look ultra-cool.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Oh, gads, that was good. I think I love you.”
“Thank you, sir. Right away.”
Fifteen seconds later, John Gallagher popped through my doorway.
“Boss, Mr. Wilson is here about the computer.”
I stood. “Thanks, John.”
Lonnie Ray Wilson was just on the shy side of forty. About the right age for a computer whiz. He had short hair and an equally close-cropped Van Dyke. At about six-one and maybe 210 solid pounds in a black leather jacket and jeans, he looked more like a hired thug than a computer geek.
He stopped six inches in front of my desk and stuck out a beefy hand. “Lonnie Ray Wilson. How can I help you?”
“Hi. Sam Jenkins. Thanks for coming.”
His grip was firm, but not exaggerated. I thought I could get to like Lonnie Ray.
“I need you to get into the computer I mentioned on the phone.”
“Crack a password?
“I guess. I know how to send emails and buy fishing tackle on eBay, but more than that and I’m computer useless.”
He grinned. “No problem. Whatcha got?”
“Come around and use my chair.” I opened the lid of Rosanna Wakefield’s laptop. “Here’s the problem child.”
Lonnie Ray sat in my oversized swivel chair and gave the laptop a look.
“Toshiba Satellite L305. Three gigs of ram and 250 gigs of hard drive.”