When they found Mr. Clay in his bed with a hole in his temple and a discarded old .32 revolver next to him on the bed stand there would have been no doubt it was murder. But Mazurkiewicz had probably owned that thing for so long, there was no way it was registered or traceable back to the chicken farmer, much less me.
And the Christmas Club; well, they just pushed and pushed and wouldn’t let up. They made my life miserable for so many months, and I had to take it and bide my time for so long and through so much…well, if the trestle thing hadn’t worked out I don’t know what I might have had to resort to. Maybe a little plinking party with my .22 during the very early morning hours? I don’t know. That probably wouldn’t have worked out for me and I probably would have gotten caught. So the trestle collapsing the way it did and when it did was fortuitous to say the least. A real blessing for me.
And as I said, it gave me a taste for what was to come.
So, here I am, at the end of a brilliant, albeit secret, career as an avenger of justice, writing all of this down now as I sit in this bed in this run down trailer in this all but deserted trailer park. I hardly know why I bother, since I won’t be around to take a bow when someone finally reads it. Truth is, it won’t be until they find me that they’ll even find this. I just feel that a person should be remembered for something; don’t you? And his achievements should be recorded for posterity, even if he has to toot his own horn to make it happen.
It’s cancer. What I’m being eaten up with. I’m riddled with it. But I refuse to go out drugged out of my mind and hooked up to machines in a hospital room. That’s how my dad went, and even though he was apparently not in pain, he was just a useless lump, lying there with people standing around waiting for him to stop breathing. In my case it would only be nurses and housekeeping staff, but they have better things to do.
I also refuse to go out all by myself in this bed screaming at the ceiling. I choose to go under my own terms and at the moment I pick. So here I am, propped up on pillows, finishing up my memoirs for you, reader, finder of this journal.
On the table next to me is about a half pint of vodka and a Hi Standard over/under derringer with one .22 caliber mini mag round. It’s all I’m going to need. I’m going to be my own final victim, and that’s okay. It’s my choice and that’s all I care about. Me, in control, making a plan and having it come to pass the way I saw it in my head.
What did that guy on that old TV show used to say? “I love it when a plan comes together.”
Well since the day the Christmas Club bought it on that hill outside of Trinidad that has been the secret success of my life. I’ve been a military man – even served in Nam – and a teacher and for a little while a police officer. I worked some temporary jobs like security, retail clerk, ranch hand…been a lot of things. But my real career, through it all and behind the scenes, is until now only recorded anonymously in police blotters and reports of crimes yet unsolved, in four states and two foreign countries. Everywhere I went I found people who had in one way or another avoided getting their just desserts; either for crimes committed or misery they had brought down on the heads of others who were weaker. In every case I feel I was justified in the actions I took.
Did Frankie plant the seed? I don’t really know. Maybe it was there all along and only began to germinate with the broken glasses incident. I only remember that day as the dawning of my life-long desire for revenge. Revenge for my own pain, and vengeance for the stomped on folks.
I do know the Christmas Club went a long way toward fertilizing and watering that seed. In any case, it grew into what it did and it bore a dark fruit. Am I repentant? Why would I be? What’s the point in trying to make amends at this stage of the game with God or anybody?
I’m on my way out and as I lay in this old broken down bed all I want in the end is some recognition, even if I won’t be around to bask in it.
Now, if you are a thinking person and you’ve been paying attention, you’ve caught that my last years of High School were spent in Quincy. You may at this point even be curious as to whether there are any unsolved missing persons cases still on file for Plumas County California, for the years 1966 through 1969. Go ahead. Follow my trail if you can.
Google it.
PART TWO
One ship drives east and another drives west
With the self-same winds that blow;
'Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
That tells them the way to go.
Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate
As we voyage along through life;
'Tis the set of the soul
That decides its goal
And not the calm or the strife.
-- Ella Wheeler Wilcox “The Winds of Fate”
“Let me decide what is sin and I will be sinless” - Unknown
PRESENT DAY
Sam Runyan was irritated and it was only 0920 hours on a Monday in May. The day hadn’t started badly. But then he burned his mouth with break room coffee that was not only hotter than he had anticipated but also older and cooked to bitterness. Some early bird must have come in around 6 and made a pot and it had been on the burner ever since.
It wasn’t only the hot coffee that had him irritated, however. It took more than a little mouth burn to ruin the day for Special Agent Samuel Runyan. Today, that little more was the visage of Monica Sterling walking toward his desk with a folder in her hand.
It also wasn’t her appearance itself that irritated him. She was more beautiful than modern office ethics would allow him to verbalize to her. It was the folder. When Mon was walking toward his desk with a folder it only meant one thing – Paperwork for him to add to the bottom of his already towering stack of case files and unfinished annual reports.
A smile spread her cheeks as she studied the scowl he was firing her way. “Now, now, Agent Runyan,” she said in the most condescending tone she could affect, “way too early for that sour look. Did you have a bad night?”
“No, Mon”, he sighed, “I just burned my mouth on old, bitter coffee, and to add insult to the pain, here you are with work I don’t want and you have the audacity to deliver it with a smile.” As he answered her he took the folder from her outstretched hand.
“Well Dear,” Monica let out a little laugh, “I wasn’t smiling at the prospect of giving you work. I was smiling at your little-boy-pout. Take a look in the folder. I brought this to you because it’s right up your alley.
Sam let out a low grunt of mock doubt as he opened the folder and sat back in his chair. Monica moved to the chair he kept in front of his desk for that purpose and waited as he began to scan the top page of the file.
Samuel A. Runyon had been with the Federal Bureau of Investigation for just over fifteen years. He had come to the Stockton field office from Los Angeles in 2010 and was still trying to adjust to the marked drop in activity between that large office in one of the world’s largest metropolitan areas and this much smaller, six-person office in the central California city with the drastically smaller population of 292,000.
Sam had been assigned to the Los Angeles office for ten years. He had a reputation for being a very astute investigator, often well-served by his ability to read people and understand their unspoken motives. Sam also had a reputation for being a-political. He had no interest in playing the head games that go with almost any working office situation. He did his best to stay out of the political strategizing and game playing that occupied the time and energies of Agents around him and even above him. But there came a time when certain people in his chain of command began to imagine, out of their own jealous fear that Sam was going to be a challenge to their ladder climbing efforts on the way to the top. So hints were dropped in ears and little innuendoes were muttered at the water cooler. Little irritations and petty suspicions were voiced around the office, all in an effort to undermine Sam’s character and credibility. Finally, a man Sam trusted implicitly invited him out for a drink one evenin
g, and in the corner of a local pub where they could talk freely he advised Sam of a plot he had stumbled upon to set Sam up to be wrongfully accused of a serious violation of ethics so he might be removed from the running completely.
Sam was astounded. He was no political animal and only wanted to do his job and do it well. But he was being forced to fall into the pig pen and get into the political mire with those already wallowing and that just wasn’t who he was.
So he applied for a transfer, not specifying an office of choice – just wanting to be somewhere else – and he drew the Stockton office. His bosses knew why he was in Stockton; no one else in the office knew or needed to know.
In the L.A. office Sam had been second in command of the cold case division for the Southern California region. There was no need for a separate department here for the investigation of cold cases, but everyone in the office knew of Sam’s background and the fact that he was considered to be very good with investigations of that nature.
Today’s early visit from Agent Sterling was the most recent reaction to that knowledge.
Sam’s frown grew at first glance of the page in front of him. “Wait a minute,” he paused his reading and looked up, “what about this is up my alley? This is a stiff only found dead three days ago, and in Louisiana at that. What brings this case out of the hands of the local cops there and into our jurisdiction?”
Monica leaned forward and crossed her arms on his desk, moving the plaque that identified the furniture as being the work place of Special Agent Samuel A. Runyan. His eyes flitted to the moved plaque and back up to her eyes quickly before he could be construed as focusing on anything else in that area. She said, “You need to keep reading, Silly. You barely looked at it. Are we going to be surly today?”
He just glowered and folded his arms. Sam struck an imposing figure for suspects who came under his gaze. His 6’2” frame carried 195 pounds of muscle, kept hard by numerous outdoor activities such as hiking in his beloved Yosemite National Park and working out with weights in a neighborhood gym. His eyes carried no threat for Monica however. They were partners and over a two year period they had both discovered that their combined talents worked well. They were comfortable together.
She continued. “Under that top sheet is a long narrative written by the dead guy, that amounts to a confession of at least two premeditated homicides that have heretofore never been solved, six deaths that are at minimum involuntary manslaughter, and a bold hint that there are more out there involving a total of four states. That puts it in federal jurisdiction.”
Sam dropped the folder back onto the desk. “Ok, I’ll get to that long narrative but save me some reading time, Mon. If the man confessed to his crimes on his deathbed in Louisiana then, one, doesn’t that pretty much solve the crimes, and two, again, why does it come to my desk?”
She stood from her chair and picked up his cup. “Go ahead and read big guy”, she said with a wink, “I’ll get us both some fresh coffee and then we’ll talk. That dead man in Louisiana got his start as a serial killer forty eight years ago, in a little town about a thirty minute drive from here. He was a fourteen year old son of a preacher man at the time of his first kill. His name was Cole Everman.”
CHAPTER 1
By the time Sam finished reading they had both downed two cups of coffee. Laying the folder down once more he leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers behind his head and said, “Have you read this whole thing already, or just the cover page?”
“Oh. The entire thing!” she put down the local map she had been perusing and waved a finger in the direction of the folder. “The Bossier City, Louisiana PD got Everman’s little autobiography there off a laptop next to his bed. Didn’t even have to look for it. The document hadn’t been closed, so when they booted it up, there is was. So, they called here and got me, since I was the only one in the office at 0630 hrs. After they gave me a quick overview of the scene where the body was found and what they discovered on the computer, I asked them to forward the doc to me via email and I printed off a copy for you. Like I said, it was right up your alley. In addition, there was a note from Louisiana with this file that indicated they are still inspecting that laptop and if they find anything that might be helpful for us they’ll forward it later.”
Following a light lunch at Bagel King, Sam was riding shotgun in the Field Office’s silver Ford Fusion while Monica drove. They had called the County Sheriff to request one of his Detectives to meet them in Trinidad. Sam wanted to begin where Cole Everman claimed to have begun. There were landmarks he wanted to see and possibly a couple of cold case files he would want to discuss with local Law Enforcement later.
The Sheriff’s tone over the phone was clearly skeptical when he learned that the Agents were preparing to start digging into ancient history. He was reluctant to send any of his people on what sounded on the surface like a wild goose chase.
But Sam had built a fairly stable relationship over the years between his office and the Local Law Enforcement agencies in the surrounding counties, which was quite a feat since when he first came to Stockton the tension between the FBI office and other entities was just a little bit short of a Hatfields and McCoys situation.
So the Sheriff agreed to have a Deputy meet Sam and Monica in Trinidad on loan for the day only, with the stipulation that he would, based upon the report he got from the Deputy, reassess the need for his department’s continued involvement. Sam thanked the Sheriff and hung up. About ten minutes later Monica picked up the phone on Sam’s desk while he was away getting rid of some of the coffee they had guzzled. The caller was Deputy John Springer, sounding at least as reluctant as the Sheriff had, informing her that he had some business in court but would meet them in Trinidad after lunch. “Does 1300 hours work for you, Agent Sterling?” She said it worked just fine.
They headed out to Bagel King and discussed Everman’s story over their plates and were back on the road by 12:28 pm. Although it was early in the spring the mid-day temp hovered around 80 degrees and they drove with their windows down.
Sam glanced at the GPS she had programmed as they got in the car. “I have known about this town, Trinidad, for a long time but I’ve never been out this way; have you?” She just shook her head and kept her eyes on the road. “Isn’t there a Trinidad up north on the coast?” He asked.
This time she nodded. “Yes, and the only reason I know about that is because I Googled it before I brought you the file. I mean, I knew there was a Trinidad, but I was surprised to find out there was more than one. It seems that the Trinidad on the coast up north of Eureka, and our little Trinidad that we’re going to visit today, came into being at around the same time in the mid-1800s. Both due to the gold rush.”
She glanced in Sam’s direction and he was smiling. “What are you grinning at?” She asked. “Nothing!” he said dismissively, “Please, continue.”
Monica glanced at him twice more while watching her driving, then went on. “Ok… well, the Trinidad up north had seen a lot of activity off and on since the early 1700s by virtue of its location by the ocean. French explorers and all that. Then, as I said, it developed into a community during the gold rush and was actually called a couple of different names. Finally it became Trinidad because of some name a Spanish explorer had given it – ‘something trinity’ - …you’re smiling again!”
This time she was smiling back but his grin was distracting her from her story.
He laughed. “No, really go ahead.” After a pause, she went on. Well, I obviously didn’t memorize the whole history thing I was looking at; but the long and the short of it is, the Trinidad up north was incorporated as a city of the State of California in 1870 but our Trinidad was not. It has never been incorporated as a municipality, even to this day. They have no law enforcement, no courthouse, their mail is delivered on a country rural route, etc. So that’s why there can be two Trinidad’s. One is a real town and one officially hardly exists… ok, if you don’t tell me what you’re grinning
at I’ll stop this car so I can punch you!”
Sam laughed openly now. “That was a wonderful story, Agent Sterling! It was very informative. And it tells me something about you; actually a couple of somethings.”
Her eyebrow went up. “What would those somethings be?”
“Well,” he began in a serious tone, “it speaks to your thoroughness that you did all of this digging before presenting me with this file. You questioned the fact of two towns having the same name and you found your answer so that it was ready for me when I had the same question. Monica, that is conscientious work. I am duly impressed. You’ve shown your usual diligence.”
“Thank you…” she said, but her tone was asking the obvious question. “The second reason,” he continued, reading her thoughts, “is that now I know who was in early enough to make coffee and let it cook on the hot plate for three hours.”
Through her own laughter now she defended herself. “Hey, hey, Special Agent Runyan. I was there to work, not run a truck stop. If you want fresh coffee when you come to work halfway through the morning…”
“Half way!” he attempted to interject
“…half way through the morning…” she repeated more loudly to override his objection, “…then you will just have to make it yourself. They did teach you how to make coffee at Quantico, did they not?”
Feigning hurt and shock, Sam drew in a sharp breath. “They taught you how to make coffee?”
She gave him a pretend sneer and they continued the ride in silence as he went back over the file from Louisiana.
“Here we are,” she pointed ahead at a small faded sign that said, “Welcome to Trinidad, California, - Gateway to the Tuolumne”.
As they entered the small business district they could see a Stanislaus County Sheriff’s patrol car parked in front of a Church on the left side of the street, about three blocks ahead.
The Everman Journal Page 9