by Rick Reed
“Not a chance the cases are related then, huh? Just blink once for yes and twice for no.”
Jack blinked three times. “Talk to Captain Franklin. He’s a reasonable guy. Do you have his cell phone number?”
“Oh yeah. Like I’m going to call a Captain of detectives at two-thirty in the morning. I’ll stay and talk to him when he comes to work. I don’t have any other leads here.”
“If the Captain gives the green light I’ll tell you what I can,” Jack said. “And now, since I gave you nothing, I need you to do something for me.”
“You know Jack, since you started working for the FBI you’re starting to pick up their bad habits. You tell me nothing, I give you everything, and now you need a favor. What else is new? Shoot.”
Jack asked Adamson to call if they turned up anything with the neighborhood checks. They both didn’t think that likely, but Adamson said he would and thanked Jack for nothing.
Jack got in his car and headed home with the key from the sugar jar and the one from the envelope in Olson’s locker. About halfway home his cell phone chirped. It was Walker.
“Jack, the key is to a U-Haul storage unit. I saw one like it a week or so ago. I’ll be tied up here for a few hours. I take it you’re not working Olson’s murder?”
“No,” Jack said, although he knew Captain Franklin would assign it to them eventually. “But call me if you or Angelina get anything else on the key.” There were dozens of U-Haul businesses around the area.
Walker agreed. Jack’s phone rang again before he could disconnect. It was Angelina.
“U-Haul in Mt. Vernon,” she said and gave him the address. “Anyone ever tell you your timing sucks, Jack? I’m going back to sleep. Mark says hi. I sent the U-Haul after-hours contact info to your phone.” The line went dead.
Jack saw he had a message. He didn’t want to bother with it tonight, but curiosity got the better of him. He’d call the after-hours contact if he needed them. The address was in Mt. Vernon. It took him three attempts to get Siri to give him directions. “Bitch.”
* * * *
It was 2:30 in the morning, he was tired, his face and scalp hurt, and his eyes watered. His mind shifted from one thought to another as he drove the deserted highway between Evansville and Mt. Vernon.
Shift
He remembered driving this stretch of road at the beginning of the year to view the handiwork of a serial killer. The victim was tied to a strut on a grain bin and set on fire.
Shift
He was going to get married. Remarried. He was going to be a father. Second time was always a charm. Wasn’t it?
Shift
A father. The words melted his heart.
Shift
Why did Olson get a storage unit in Mt. Vernon? If he wanted to give something to his old Captain, why didn’t he just leave it in his house? Why not call Dick to come and get it? Why not just give it to Dick? Why call Jack? Did he have a falling-out with Captain D?
Shift
He wondered how this marriage and fatherhood thing would turn out. The good as well as the bad. Cops were always in protect mode. Everything that happened was their doing.
Shift
Just north of here was a camp of freedom fighters. A farm was turned into an armed camp by a woman with a grudge against the government and a hatred for illegal immigrants. Her son had been killed by an illegal immigrant. Her husband died never seeing the justice he wanted for his son’s death. The camp’s founder was Karen Stenger. Aggrieved widow. Was she just working out her grief? Or was she someone to be reckoned with?
Jack compartmented that concern. ICE was aware of them. Not his problem. Yet.
Shift
What could Olson have left for the retired Captain that would merit a secret storage unit? Olson had given Jack a cryptic hint about the sugar jar. Did he know he was going to die? Did he intend for Jack to die? Did he leave the gate unlocked and the door open for him? Did he let someone in who he trusted and forgot to shut the door? Or did he want to put an end to thirty-seven years of paranoia?
Olson hadn’t told his killer about the key in Mama Bear or it would have been gone. Was Olson blackmailing someone? The retired Captain? In any case, he hoped whatever was in storage was related to the investigations. He knew Olson had lied earlier, held back. He was pretty sure the autopsy finding would be death by CO2 cartridge injected inside the skull. Didn’t really matter if it was a shark dart or a .50 caliber. Dead was dead, and Olson was out of the picture.
Jack was rolling into Mt. Vernon before he was aware of it. It was late and there was no traffic. No police patrol. Good. He’d need them eventually. But not now.
He parked in the gravel shoulder next to the U-Haul and mulled over what he was going to do. He hadn’t called the after-hours person because he wasn’t sure the key even fit a storage unit there. He’d check first. If it did fit, he’d back off and get a warrant. If not, he’d go home and crawl back in bed for two hours.
He got out of the car, climbed the fence, and went in search of unit number 23. That was the number on the key. He didn’t have to go far.
Chapter 38
The good news was that U-Haul in Mt. Vernon didn’t have operational, CCTV so it wouldn’t show Jack scaling the fence and wandering. The bad news: U-Haul didn’t have a CCTV, so he wouldn’t be able to see if anyone accessed the unit to deposit items.
He’d found the storage unit, the key fit; he’d opened it and saw what it contained. He locked up, climbed back over the fence, went to his car, and called the after-hours number and the Mt. Vernon PD. A nineteen-year-old zit-faced kid came out and wanted to see a warrant. Jack showed his FBI badge and his gun and was about to show him the bottom of his foot, but the Mt. Vernon cop arrived, so he decided to get the warrant.
The Mt. Vernon cop helped Jack get a judge out of bed and get him on the phone. Jack talked to the judge and told him what they were doing. The judge said there was no reason for a search warrant if the owner of the unit was dead. Jack half-heartedly argued there might be a chain of custody issue, but the judge was tired, Jack was tired, and the kid asked too damn many questions. He got verbal permission from the judge, who also spoke to Mt. Vernon PD, and it was a fait accompli. The judge said if he needed something in writing not to call him.
When the unit was opened it revealed a surprising number of photos, police files, letters, documents, and some pieces of physical evidence, such as five rifles, three handguns, and reloading equipment. Two of the rifles still had a price tag tied to the barrel that identified the weapons were from Harry’s gun shop. The prices were at least thirty-seven-year-old prices for such weapons. One of the handguns was a .50 caliber Desert Eagle in a wooden presentation case. It was immaculate, as if it had never been fired. Jack called Walker and apologized, but Walker was up anyway, or so he said.
He hadn’t gone through the photos they found in a box in the storage unit yet. Most were Polaroids, but some were 35mm. One showed Max’s body slumped toward the driver’s window of the Camaro with most of his head missing. One showed Harry Day’s body laid out on the floor, facedown in the gun shop, just like Sergeant Mattingly had said. There were two photos of the safe at the gun shop. One with the door closed. One with it open and full of ledgers, a stack of cash, a silver revolver of some caliber, and other papers.
He found Harry’s ledgers and notebook in the box with the pictures. The cash wasn’t there, or the revolver.
In one corner of the storage bin a tire iron leaned against the wall. Walker found a paper grocery sack containing pieces of broken beer bottles. Jack wondered again if Olson was keeping all of this as insurance. But if he was, why would he have addressed the envelope at the YMCA to Dick Sr.? So far Jack had only considered Thomas Dick as a witness to a cover-up, but maybe he had a bigger part in this. He dismissed the idea. Dick Sr. was in his late seventies. He wasn’t the perso
n Jack had witnessed fleeing from Olson’s house.
Olson would only be keeping this stuff hidden for two reasons: Either he was blackmailing someone, or he was afraid of someone. They might have been the same person. The obvious people were Double Dick, Needham, and James. If Olson left the message to give the key to Dick Sr., he didn’t think Sr. was the person Olson was blackmailing. It was complicated. Like the old joke. Who did it was on first. Why they did it was on second. What they did it with was on third. Jack still didn’t have the answers he needed, but he was very close.
He left the scene in Walker’s hands and drove back to headquarters, intending to type a report. It was still dark. He would have an hour before he had to be at Two Jakes to meet with Elkins and Liddell. Few third shift people would be in the detectives’ office. He’d sneak in, get his notes in order, check his mail, and then go to the war room.
When he got to headquarters he could barely keep his eyes open.
He parked in Double Dick’s parking spot and shut the engine and lights off.
“Screw the notes,” he said, and laid his seat back, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep.
* * * *
Jack was awakened by a tapping on the glass and sat up with a start. Liddell’s big face was just outside the window. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” Liddell said. “Wipe your mouth, pod’na.”
Jack wiped drool from the side of his mouth and exited the car. He pointed at Liddell’s face. “You’ve got something stuck there.”
“What?” Liddell wiped at the corner of his mouth.
“I think it was the back end of a gazelle, but you got it, Bigfoot.”
“Oh, ha-ha. I didn’t see your car at your house or at the war room, so I checked here. You should thank me for finding you before the Dickster came to work and had your car towed—with you in it.”
“I need some coffee,” Jack said and checked the time. “I’ve got to call Katie.”
“I already had Marcie call her, pod’na. She won’t yell at Marcie.”
“Thanks. Get in. You drive.”
Jack got out and let Liddell in the driver’s seat.
“Where we going?”
“Thomas Dick’s.”
Jack laid his head back and closed his eyes. He was running on low burner and hoped it was enough to get this case heated up as Liddell headed down Sycamore Street to the Lloyd Expressway toward Warrick County.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you,” Liddell said.
“Now what?”
“You. U-Haul. Evidence. Am I making sense?” Liddell said. “I should be pissed at you, pod’na, but I really needed some sleep.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Jack said, rubbing his eyes. “Tell me when we get there.” Jack fell back asleep.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Liddell found what might have been the right property. He pulled off on the gravel at the opening of the wide driveway and nudged Jack awake. In front of them stood a massive iron double gate with a stacked stone wall running off in either direction. The gate was open. There was no mailbox or number affixed to the stone or gate.
“I hope we’re at the right house, pod’na.”
“Is it the right address?”
“Yeah, it must be, but there’s no number or mailbox. The GPS says we have arrived.”
“Siri lies, Bigfoot. You can’t trust a word that bitch says.”
“So, should we go in? I mean, he was a Captain. Maybe we should call first,” Liddell said.
“I’ll protect you. You big sissy.”
“Am not.”
“Yeah. You are. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I keep it with the Constitution and the Fourth Amendment.”
“We’ve got guns and badges. Federal badges. You’re a fed now. We make the Constitution up as we go.”
Liddell pulled through. The gravel turned to a narrow asphalt driveway that had seen better days. Sugar maple trees grew on each side, creating a canopy, the leaves a dazzling arbor of reds and yellows and orange.
Liddell said. “It’s like a tunnel. Marcie and Janie would love to see this.”
The driveway curved to the left and a hundred yards or so in the distance they could see the house—more of a small mansion—with its sweeping lawn. The property was dotted with trees and created a park-like setting. In the diffused morning light an impressive display of color seemed to backlight the property.
Liddell pointed off to the east. “Those are cottonwoods. They grow close to water. The Ohio River must be close.”
Jack saw the mass of gold foliage. “Yeah. Pretty. But aren’t those trees responsible for all that white fluffy mess floating around in the air?”
“You just don’t appreciate nature, pod’na. Cottonwood trees were important to the settlers. They told the pioneers they were near water.”
“Talking trees,” Jack said.
“You can eat parts of the cottonwood.”
“Well, Bucky Beaver,” Jack said. “You go eat a tree and I’ll talk to Dick’s daddy.”
“Maybe we should name them Big Dick and Little Dick? Or—”
“Stop. Just stop.”
Liddell picked up the pace and they passed a falling-down wooden structure that might have been an Army barracks during one of the great wars. “Those were slave quarters,” Liddell said.
“What?”
“Slave quarters,” Liddell said. “This place resembles Uncle Sam’s mansion in St. James Parish back home. It was a working cotton plantation, but it’s gone now. Just about all of the plantation mansions were built in that Gone with the Wind style and close to water transportation. All the land along the waterways grew cotton or sugar. This might have been a working plantation back in the day.”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Jack said. They parked in front of the Greek Revival two-story home with wraparound verandas on the first and upper levels, and ornately framed gables and front entrance. The verandas were held up by massive octagonal columns.
Jack had seen many plantation mansions during their recent case in Plaquemine—pronounced plak-uh-min—where they had nearly been killed while rescuing Liddell’s kidnapped niece. They’d even burned one to the ground. He didn’t know about Uncle Sam’s, but this structure was definitely out of time and place here in Hoosier-land.
There were moneyed people residing in Warrick County but, even given that, the Dick family home was a little too rich for a cop’s blood.
“I wonder how Double Dick was able to go to Rex Mundi if they lived in Warrick County?” Jack said. “Marcie and I have been considering schools for Janie and there’s only two in our school district.”
“Aren’t you pushing things a bit, Bigfoot? She’s only eleven months.”
“You can never be too prepared, pod’na. You should start thinking about that—and colleges.”
Jack and Liddell got out and walked up the marble steps onto the lower veranda and rang a doorbell beside the ten-foot-tall, eight-foot-wide double doors. They waited long enough for an older gent to wake up, take a pee, put pants on, and come to the door. Nothing. A heavy iron lion’s-head door knocker was attached to the center of each door. Jack used one to rap several times against the door. No answer. Jack rang the doorbell again and held the button down. Still nothing.
“Maybe we should come back?”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “Maybe we should have Angelina find out how a retired police captain can afford a place like this. There’s got to be a couple of hundred acres of land. I wonder if he’s a historic landmark?”
“Three hundred and twenty acres actually and no, I’m not quite that old,” a voice said from behind them.
Retired Detective Captain Thomas Dick was standing on the side veranda in paint-stained overalls. He wasn’t holding a paintbrush.
Instead he held a wicked pair of pointed hedge loppers. He walked over and stood facing them. “How I can afford this place is that this monstrosity has been in the family since the mid-1800s.”
“We were just admiring your property,” Liddell said.
“It’s something, isn’t it? This house is over two hundred years old. Built in 1811. The same year Captain Jacob Warrick was killed in the Battle of Tippecanoe. My great-great-grandfather bought it from his family after Jacob died. We originally owned over five hundred acres,” Dick said. “And that was only a modest cotton farm back in the day. Over the years some of the land has been sold off for repairs and upkeep, but I still have enough. I’m restoring it. Maybe I’ll open it as a museum. Maybe a bed-and-breakfast. I could turn the old slave quarters into shops. Sell all that smell-good crap women like.”
He took his gardening gloves off and wiped his hands on the front of his overalls. “You can scream at the top of your lungs and no one would hear you. My closest neighbor is a half mile away. We value our privacy out here.”
“Lucky for us you were nearby and we didn’t have to scream,” Jack said and smiled.
Dick Sr. didn’t return the smile. “You’re not here for the tour at this hour. What do you think I’m going to tell you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of—” Jack said before Dick interrupted.
“I know what you’re investigating.” Dick turned and gazed out over the pristine lawn to the tree line, the Ohio River hidden behind them. When he came out of his reverie he launched into tour guide mode, or history teacher mode, or—and Jack voted for this one—Captain Dick was just killing time, trying to decide how much they knew and what he should tell them.
“The only original part of the mansion still standing are these stone pillars.” He said this and placed a palm against the surface of one of the pillars in a proud caress. “Everything dies and goes away with age. This was once a grand place, but now I only keep up the ten acres you see surrounding the house. Someday Richard will get all of this. The family legacy will live on after I’m gone. But not too soon. I hope.”