by Rick Reed
When he and Katie had gotten engaged the first time, they had talked about children. He’d teased her that he wanted sons. Plural. He was Catholic and so was Katie and he expected no less than seven children. All boys. When Katie became pregnant they were told the baby was a girl and unexpectedly, he’d felt his heart skip a beat. He wanted a girl after all.
And now history had repeated itself. They’d just gotten engaged and Katie was pregnant again. He wondered what the baby would be this time around. Another girl and they would name her Caitlyn and that thought made his throat tighten. No. Not Caitlyn. Caitlyn had died during birth. Katie had come close to dying too. He was overwhelmed with the possibility of losing everyone he loved.
He pushed the horrible idea away. This baby would live. He’d finish the nursery, spend more time at home with Katie and the baby—boy or girl—and quit his job, if that’s what it took to make this work. He thought if he got mad enough he could do anything. And he was mad enough now. He’d take it out on Olson.
He left Katie a note on the kitchen table, closed the back door quietly, went to the garage, got in his Crown Vic, and said, “Olson. I’m going to kick your ass if you lied to me.”
Chapter 34
He’d been told the old detective had gone downhill after retiring, but the six-foot fence and security system were extremely paranoid. Olson was surprised to see him, but invited him in and offered him a drink of some brand of rotgut whiskey, but didn’t get out of his recliner to get an extra glass. They talked—or at least he asked questions and Olson remained silent. He seemed nervous, but he was relatively calm until he saw the Desert Eagle. He reached for the .45 in a holster attached to the chair’s arm. But he was slow. Drunk and slow. Even drunk, Olson decided going for a gun wasn’t such a good idea with a .50 caliber Desert Eagle stuck in his face. Now that he had Olson’s attention, he’d asked what he told the detectives. He wasn’t convinced it was nothing. Olson didn’t have to play dumb. It came naturally.
To his credit, the old detective didn’t beg for his life. He just smiled and picked up the television remote and pointed it at the TV. It didn’t make sense that he would do that until he saw Olson’s eyes cut toward the partially open front door. That’s when it struck him as odd that a man so security conscious would leave the front door ajar. He was waiting for someone. Olson hit another button and floodlights bathed the front yard in light.
The butt of the Desert Eagle came down on Olson’s head and he slumped in the recliner.
Outside, Murphy was caught in the middle of the yard like a deer in the headlights of a car. Murphy’s arrival had taken him by surprise. More importantly, it had interrupted his getting information from Olson. He knew Olson had kept in touch with Dennis James. Olson had admitted as much when they’d talked on the phone earlier in the day. If Olson had only given up where James had gone to earth, cooperated a little, he might have lived a few more painful minutes.
He didn’t want to kill Murphy. Not just yet. He could sense Murphy moving out in the yard. Then Olson moaned and cried out for help and had to be dispatched. The shark dart did so quietly, or as quietly as a head can explode when it was filled with CO2.
Olson was of no further use. Murphy was just outside the door. He had to make a decision. Flee or kill Murphy. Murphy’s shadow crossed the opening in the doorway and he made his decision. He fired a hail of bullets through the door just as Murphy was kicking it open. Murphy’s idea of stealthy moves sucked.
* * * *
Jack pulled off on the grit shoulder a few houses down from Olson’s. It was 1:00 in the morning. He would have called Bigfoot to go with him, but he didn’t want to ruin his partner’s holiday. Olson sounded plastered on the phone and was most likely going to read Jack the riot act for digging into the old cases or he wanted someone to reminisce about the old days or he wanted to shoot him because Olson was a paranoid asshole. There was a police saying that went, “Better tried by twelve than carried by six.” If he had to shoot Olson he could always have his telephone records subpoenaed to show Olson had called him. He could defend himself in court. He didn’t want to have to shoot someone in their own house on Thanksgiving morning.
Olson would be armed, so he would be too. He pulled his Glock, chambered a round, and kept it down by his side. In this neighborhood a gun wouldn’t be out of place. It was better to be prepared than not.
Olson’s gate wasn’t shut. Jack thought, “Maybe it’s a trap.” Then he thought, “Maybe he’s just really shit-faced and sat down on his remote.” The lights were all off and Jack thought about calling for backup, but that would be hard to explain and he was trying to keep this quiet. He debated with himself. Pull the gate shut and go home. Go to the door and risk getting shot. In for a penny, in for a pound. He walked through the gate.
As he approached the front of the house he had another thought. He wasn’t wearing a ballistic vest. Olson had an arsenal and was drunk. All he had were his balls and his Glock.
The temperature had dropped ten degrees and the neighborhood was eerily quiet. Not a creature was stirring. Not even an armed louse. There was a loud click and halogen security lights mounted over the gutters came to life, blinding him while he was still halfway between the gate and the front door.
He ran like hell, half-crouched, zigzagging toward the house. He pressed up against the wall, hoping not to get picked off like a duck in a shooting gallery. So far, so bad. He slid along the wall and reached the front door. It was cracked open a few inches. He squinted in an effort to blink the spots away that were clouding his vision. Still no sound from inside the house.
In the distance he heard a car radio pounding out a beat in time with his heart pounding in his ears. He checked all around: the street, both sides of the house, the door, and there was no movement, no sound, but he could feel a presence close to him.
Olson hadn’t called out when the floodlights lit him up. He should be glad he hadn’t been shot, but instead he felt a tightness in his chest that spread all the way to his crotch. He wondered what his dad would do. The answer was his dad would slap the crap out of him right now for being so stupid as to come to the house in the dark, knowing Olson was drunk and armed.
He reached for the door and heard a soft moan coming from inside. He pulled his cell phone out and hit the button for 911. He heard the operator say, “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” and at the same time a weak voice from inside was calling out, “Help me.”
He left the line open and dropped the phone in his pocket. Holding the .45 in both hands, he put his back against the side of the door frame. Using his left leg, he kicked his heel back into the door, throwing it open. And then the fun began.
Splinters of wood exploded outward inches from his face, his arm and ribs felt a dozen bee stings, and thunderous explosions came from inside. Jack’s eardrums felt the pressure of the blasts even with a wall between him and whatever cannon Olson was shooting. It sounded like a small howitzer.
Jack proned out on the ground facing the door, gun up, finger tight on the trigger, and yelled, “Olson! It’s Jack Murphy. Stop shooting.” The wall provided some cover, but if Olson stood in the darkness just inside the doorway, Jack could kiss his ass good-bye.
The shooting stopped. Jack yelled again. “Olson, it’s Jack Murphy. Stop shooting.” No response. He heard a door at the back of the house slam and feet pounding away from the house toward the alley. Jack came off the ground and cleared the side of the house when he saw a figure in black leap, cat-like, onto the roof of the small wooden shed at the back of the house. The hooded figure scrabbled for purchase on the sloped shingles for just an instant, caught hold and disappeared over the top. It definitely wasn’t Olson.
Jack didn’t pursue. He couldn’t jump over the damn shed before the guy would be long gone. He went to the storm door. It was open against the wall; the glass was shattered and the door hung from one hinge. The steel entry do
or was wide open and it was pitch-black inside.
He backed against the side of the door and yelled, “Olson. It’s me. Murphy. Don’t shoot. I’m coming in.” He quickly entered the room, moved to the side in a crouch, his gun sweeping the room, left to right and back. “Olson? It’s Detective Murphy.” Nothing.
The only light came from the streetlights and it was just enough for Jack to make out a doorway across from him. He felt a table’s edge and a chair. He was in the kitchen. He moved toward the door opening and his foot hit something that clattered across the floor. He froze and breathed out slowly, quietly. Nothing happened. He moved on and felt around the wall, on the other side of the doorway and felt a light switch.
The house had an empty feel now. The intruder had left and he was alone, unless Olson was still inside somewhere. Maybe injured. Maybe waiting for Jack to show himself.
He flipped the switch and a light illuminated a short hallway. On the left was a smooth, bare wall. On the right were two closed doors. One undoubtedly a bedroom, the other a bathroom. He could see into the living room where he and Liddell had interviewed Olson yesterday morning. A loud clatter in the kitchen made him jump, gun pointed toward the noise. The refrigerator ice maker had dropped a load. On top of the refrigerator was a ceramic canister set. Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and on the floor was what was left of Baby Bear. The kitchen was neat and tidy, like nothing had been touched or broken, which would indicate a burglar. Except for Baby Bear.
Jack eased down the hallway and checked each room as he passed. Both were unoccupied. He made it to the front room and peeked around the opening. He could see the back of the leather recliner Olson had sat in. Nothing moved. He could hear the ticking of the ice maker as it reset itself.
Jack felt for a light switch, found it, flipped it, and saw an arm dangling from the side of the easy chair. Jack knew what he’d find when he walked around the recliner. He was right. Olson was in striped pajamas, slumped down, legs crossed at the ankles, an empty whiskey bottle lying at his bare feet. Olson’s handgun was still in the holster on the chair’s arm. Most of his face and the side of his head was gone. Not missing. Just blown across the back of the chair and across the man’s shoulders. Brain tissue and goo dripped down the arm. The smell of burned gunpowder was mixed with the smell of human excrement and urine.
Olson’s favored phrase came to Jack’s mind. Am I right? You know I am. Only Jack changed the words. Am I dead? You know I am.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. The line was still open and he could hear the dispatcher calling him. He heard sirens. Headlights washed over the walls of the room. Tires screeched outside. He put the phone to his ear and told dispatch his backup had arrived. He put the phone back in his pocket, held his gun over his head in one hand, badge in the other, and went out the front door, blinking into the glare of headlights and flashlights and shouts.
Chapter 35
A tired Sergeant Walker arrived and found Jack sitting in the back of an ambulance while a paramedic examined his face and top of his head with a small, powerful flashlight.
“Do I need to call the coroner for you?” Walker asked.
“Beat you to it,” Jack said. “Little Casket’s on her way.”
“I was talking to the paramedic, Jack,” Walker said. To the paramedic, he asked, “Will he live?”
The paramedic grinned. “He’s got splinters in his face and if he’ll hold still I’ll try to wash the paint chips out of his eyes. The one in the house, though, may not make it. Most of his head is gone.”
Everyone’s a comic.
The medic irrigated Jack’s eyes and in the background were floodlights with red, white, and blue emergency lights flashing across the front of the house. It resembled a tragic Christmas light show. All that was missing was a bloody blow-up Santa and the three wise reindeer.
“Olson?” Walker asked.
“Yeah. He was dead when I got here.”
“Why were you here?” Walker asked, pulling on latex gloves.
“Olson called me. He was drunk and said he remembered something. I got here and the gate wasn’t locked and his front door was open, like he was waiting for me. He’s got a remote-controlled lock on the gate.”
Seeing the security Olson had installed around the house, Walker asked, “He had a mental problem, didn’t he?”
“Not anymore,” Jack answered.
“How long ago?” Walker asked.
Jack thought about it. “He called me about thirty minutes ago and I came right over. The killer was in the house when I got here.”
“Maybe he was forced to call you? Get you here.”
“Maybe. He sounded drunk, but he didn’t sound like he was being forced, or scared.”
Walker shrugged. “Little Casket’s on her way. Are you okay?”
“If this guy doesn’t drown me,” Jack said and Walker headed toward the house.
The medic shined a penlight in Jack’s eyes, declared them clear of debris, and handed him a dry towel. Jack dabbed at his face and squinted down the street at a dark vehicle approaching. He was expecting to see the coroner’s black Chevy Suburban, but it was a small SUV. When it came even with the ambulance, Jack could see it was a Suzuki Samurai. The driver leaned out the window.
Sergeant Mattingly was in street clothes. “Isn’t that Dan Olson’s house?”
Jack said, “Yeah. Olson’s inside. Dead. Where’d you get that car? In an antique store?”
“Yeah. It was on the shelf right next to your sex life.”
“You got me. Not that I’m knocking your dedication to duty, but what the hell are you doing here?” Jack asked. This was the fourth crime scene involving the murders where Mattingly had shown up, albeit he wasn’t first to arrive this time.
Mattingly ignored the question. “Was he shot with a .50 caliber?”
“I don’t know what he was killed with,” Jack said truthfully. “But someone tried to kill me.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“Yeah,” Jack lied.
“Good. Good. I guess he got away, then?”
“Yeah. He went over a shed and a six-foot fence like a hurdle jumper.” A memory came to Jack. Mattingly was in his late fifties, but he was still competing in triathlons. Liddell had said something about that earlier. Jack had teased Liddell that if there was food at stake Liddell would be competing too.
“He must have had a car nearby,” Mattingly said. “Do you have an alert out yet? I don’t suppose you saw the vehicle?”
“Sarge, you’re off duty. I’ve got this. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. You work this morning—right?”
“I can help,” Mattingly offered.
“Thanks, but no,” Jack said. “You should stay out of this unless we need to pick your brain some more.” He could use an extra pair of eyes on this, but Mattingly had too much history with this case. That and Jack didn’t want to see another good man get fired for daring to investigate the Dickster.
Mattingly gripped the steering wheel and said nothing.
Jack said, “Listen, Sarge. This could be a conflict for you. You’re a prominent figure in several of these cases. I’m telling you this for your own good. Stay out of it unless I need you.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Another pause. “I just want to catch this bastard. Did Olson tell you anything on the phone?”
“I want to catch him too.” His scalp smarted from the place where the paramedic had removed a huge sliver of wood. Luckily, it wouldn’t require stitches.
“I hope the bastard comes after me,” Mattingly said, grimly, did a U-turn, and sped down Fulton Avenue at top speed, which for a Suzuki was about twenty miles per hour, depending on the grade of the road.
A familiar Crown Vic came from the opposite direction and pulled up behind Jack’s car.
Liddell got out and he w
as none too happy.
“You tell me to go home and then you go and get yourself shot at. You should have called me, pod’na.”
“It was one o’clock in the morning, Bigfoot. We were supposed to be off today.”
“You still should have called me.”
Jack said, “I don’t think this guy was trying to kill me.”
“So those bloody spots on your face were an accident?”
“I think he meant to slow me down. We need to get in Olson’s house.”
“You said we. Does this mean you’re going to include me now? How kind of you.”
“Would you drop it?”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“I promise,” Jack lied.
“I forgive you. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing here in the first place.”
Jack told him the important parts.
“So, tell me. When Olson called you, what exactly did he say?” Liddell asked.
Jack recounted the conversation the way he remembered it and ended by saying, “He sounded like he was shit-faced drunk. Walker thought maybe Olson was forced to call me to come over, but he didn’t sound like he was being forced. And like I said, if the guy wanted to kill me, he would have done a better job. He definitely had me outgunned and at a disadvantage.”
“Who was that in the Suzuki?” Liddell asked.
“Mattingly. He must have heard the dispatch. He needs to stay away from this. We don’t need the shit storm.”
“The man gets around, doesn’t he?” Liddell said thoughtfully. “I wonder what Olson was going to tell you. Any idea?”
Jack said, “We’d asked him about keeping any notes from the murders. Maybe he was going to give us his notes.”
“You said the front gate was unlocked and the door was ajar. When we were here earlier he was locked up like Fort Knox,” Liddell said and raised an eyebrow.
They were both thinking it might have been a setup. It could have been a lot of things. He was alive and Olson was dead. That’s what was important.