by Rick Mofina
“Doreen?” Throll said into his radio to his dispatcher.
“Go ahead, Josh.”
“Get the night manager at Red-Jack BBQ to call me now on my cell.”
“Sure, Josh.”
“Hey, everything all right?” Bobby called.
“Just marking this trash for OSBI.”
Throll looked around until he found a couple of sticks. He shoved them in the ground, a yard from the bag and box, a crude evidence marker. Then he continued to the motel when his cell trilled and the keyboard lit up. “Throll.”
“Hi, Deputy. Steve Suther at Red-Jack. We’re just locking up. Is there a problem?”
“I need your help.”
“Certainly.”
“Your security camera’s working okay, still recording?”
“Yes.”
“Would you and your staff volunteer to stay late so I can view your tape from tonight with you, maybe talk to them about customers?”
“Sure. Can you say what this is about?”
“I’ll tell you later. Be there in about thirty minutes, Steve. Now don’t touch your security camera. It’s very important. Please.”
“I understand, Deputy.”
Throll stopped walking. He found a second beer can. “He stunk. Like beer and BO.”
Several minutes later, Throll and Bobby arrived at Moonlit Dreams. They were greeted by Chester and the night clerk, a pimply-faced metal head wearing a black T-shirt, black jeans, and a black vest.
“Josh, Jason here says he only rented two rooms tonight.” Throll’s eyes spotted the keys clipped to Jason’s Indian beaded belt. “You got the key to the rooms?”
Jason jingled the set.
Throll took the keys, waving Jason a safe distance aside. He sent a deputy to the rear while he and Bobby drew their guns. They started with number 6 and knocked.
No response. No sounds.
They unlocked the door and entered the empty unit.
“Don’t move,” Throll said to Chester after switching on the light and spotting Kimberly Sue Gamer’s blue sewing scissors in the pool of blood on the floor.
“Chester, Bobby, we’ve got to seal this room.”
“Right.”
“And get Doreen to call in the FBI. Chester, I got to borrow your car.”
“Sure, where you going, Josh?”
“To Red-Jack’s.”
62
After the case status meeting at the Hall of Justice, the homicide detail’s secretary rapped on the lieutenant’s open door. “Urgent call from Detective Gutteres in San Bernardino, Leo.”
Gonzales caught Turgeon and Sydowski armed with files and departing. “Linda, Walt. Wait. It’s Gutteres. Can one of you take it?”
“Send it to me,” Turgeon said.
“What is it?” Sydowski said.
“Said it was urgent,” the secretary said. “Also got Tom Reed out front for you, Walt.”
“Reed? We were on our way to see him.” Sydowski set his files down.
On the phone, Turgeon said, “Say that again.” Then, staying on the line, she waved for Sydowski to look at her notes. “Hang on, Marv. I got Walt here. San Bernardino’s got a shell casing with a new print. You won’t believe this.”
“Could you tell Reed I’ll be a minute?” Sydowski asked the secretary.
Turgeon went back on the phone. “The BATF and the FBI are helping out on the new stuff right now. Marv says a kid taking pump readings at a truck stop near Barstow saw a shell casing fall from an SUV a few days ago.”
“A few days ago?”
Turgeon ping-ponged between Sydowski and Gutteres on the phone.
“Marv says the kid got sick, then forgot about it until all the news got out. Turns out the kid had picked up the casing, put it in his pocket; and get this, he noted the plate on his clipboard.” Turgeon nodded big nods. “The kid said two big white men. No female.”
“Maybe she was concealed,” Sydowski said. Or dumped.
“What’s that, Marv? They paid cash. That’s all he can remember. The time from the kid’s pump records would be consistent with a vehicle en route to Baker and Death Valley. The tag matches the VTN of our burned-out desert car.”
“What about the casing?” Sydowski said.
“Marv says BATF says the caliber matches the casings from the jewelry store. They’re running the latent and going through the truck stop’s security tapes for the time period. Not much there. Ball cap. Big glasses, long sleeves.”
“They’re smart.” Sydowski nodded, hoping against the odds that the new print was distinct from Tribe’s. That would give them hope on both suspects.
“Reed’s here, Linda, I’ll talk to him. You keep working with Marv and let Leo know what’s up.”
Reed’s eyes were bloodshot. He hadn’t shaved. It broke Sydowski’s heart, knowing what he was going to tell him.
“Tom, we were coming to see you.” Sydowski noticed Reed had a file bulging with papers and cassette tapes under his arm.
“I can identify one of them, Walt.”
Sydowski wondered how Reed could seriously identify anyone in his condition.
“Tom, we’ve identified one too and we’re going to hold a news conference. We’ll talk in the interview room.” Reed sat at the table.
“Are you okay?” Sydowski closed the door. “Getting any sleep?”
“Walt, I’ve been on the street chasing stuff down.”
“You’ve got to leave that to us. We talked about this.”
“No one will stop me from searching for her.”
“We’ve got a break, but brace yourself.”
“Did you find her?”
“No. We got a positive ID on one of the suspects.”
“Engler. John Engler, is it him?” Reed patted his files.
“Who?”
“John Mark Engler. I did a story on him. It’s all in here. Is he your guy?”
Puzzled, Sydowski glanced at Reed’s file folder, then his. “No, we’ve identified Delmar James Tribe, an ex-con from Folsom.”
“Delmar Tribe? Never heard of him. But Engler went to Folsom.” Reed slid his file to Sydowski, telling him everything as he read.
Turgeon entered.
“Linda, call Marv.” Sydowski passed a few pages from Reed’s file to her. “Tell them to compare their latent from the truck stop immediately against John Mark Engler, if it’s not Tribe’s.” He tapped the page. “There’s Engler’s DOB, his CDC number, NCIC and LEADS numbers. Tom’s got it all right here.”
“Sure, with those specifics it won’t take long. Be right back.”
“And these cassettes, Tom?” Sydowski turned over three standard cassette recording tapes, each with sixty minutes of HF normal bias recording time.
“Tapes of my interviews with Engler. They were in storage with tons of old stuff. I’m not very organized but I never throw anything away. I’ve listened to them again. I think he’s on the 911 tape you gave me.”
Sydowski left and returned with a cassette player to run a minute or so of Reed’s tape, then the 911 recording. “We’ll have to pass it to an examiner,” he said. “See if they can get a positive or probable voice identification.”
Turgeon returned, holding up a slip of paper. “Bingo. Direct hit. The print matches. John Mark Engler.”
“Alert Leo, we’re going to need a warrant for him,” Sydowski said, “and we’ll get the FBI to help us get both Tribe and Engler blasted out there together on the news ASAP. In a few hours everyone in the country will be looking for these two. Tom, this is a break. Tom?”
The smiles melted on Sydowski’s and Turgeon’s faces.
Reed was lost in Sydowski’s file of Delmar James Tribe on a passage he’d found from a psychiatric report.
Tribe has either raped, or tried to rape, every woman he’s had any substantial contact with. In many instances he hunted for victims and attempted to kill them afterward. We may never know how many times he’s succeeded....
Reed was wr
enched back to the grave site at Death Valley. He didn’t feel Turgeon’s hand on his shoulder. “Tom? Tom?” He felt the hellfire heat of the desert engulfing him, burning him alive. “Walt, we should call the paramedics. Tom?” The headless, handless corpse being lifted from the shallow grave.
“Tom?”
Why did he write about Engler? Why did he write about crime and dark things? He’d been warned.
“Be careful...don’t get too close to your subject....”
Reed’s darkness had manifested itself in the shape of two. Engler and Tribe. They had taken Ann.
How could any sane person hope she was alive?
63
Tia Layne took a hit of coffee from her oversized takeout cup. She drummed her polished nails on the wheel of Worldwide's rented SUV, parked near the Hall of Justice. Her concentration never left the door where she expected Tom Reed to exit.
“Something huge is popping in there, Cooter. Huge! Can’t you feel it?”
Cooter was sleeping with his head pressed against the passenger window. Layne patted his knee. “You rest there, hon. You’ve earned it. It’s been hard work but it’s going to pay off. We’re so close now I can smell the money.”
It was Cooter’s brilliant idea to hire a private investigator to report Reed’s movements. The PI’s late-night call had alerted them to Reed’s secret trip to Oakland where they’d struck gold with Angela, girlfriend of ex-cop Donnie Ray Ball, a convicted bank robber and Folsom inmate.
This story kept getting better. Layne pulled out her cell phone. She pushed her speed-dial button for her editor in New York. Waiting for a connection, she reflected on their recent work.
In Oakland, the PI, an “ex-federal agent” who kept a fat cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, lent Cooter his parabolic microphone and night-vision video gear, “top-of-the-line, no blooming or whiteouts.” It was fantastic. They saw, heard, and recorded everything. Until Reed spotted them.
They went back to the office, sent their uncut pictures off. The PI was good. In a few hours he would hand-deliver to Layne all the criminal files, photographs, news stories, and available photos that would help Layne tell the story of Reed’s link to the fugitive killers and his quest to find his wife. The total cost to Layne: five thousand bucks.
But her reward...
Sure, it might be measured in six figures, but how to measure the triumph of a woman who, after a lifetime of being made to feel inferior to others, proves her worth to the entire damned world?
And soon her money would be in the bank.
Come on Seth, answer. They had exclusive grainy dramatic night pictures from Oakland, Reed entering the Star at night, then rushing to the police. It was engrossing stuff.
“Seth here.”
“Tia in San Francisco.”
“London wants to know the latest in California.”
“We’ve just about got this nailed.”
“London’s excited about the night footage. Thanks for rushing it to us. Legal is going through everything. The surreptitious recording, your controversial tie to this case over the previous incident. Indications are we should be clear on most of it, depending on how we present it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Routine ass covering. What’s the real status, Seth?”
“Still no charges.”
“And?”
“London loves what you’ve got.”
“But?”
“They said all that’s required is an exclusive clip of Reed talking about his one-man pursuit. That would guarantee you’re the top story and bump the current piece, Hollywood addictions and infidelities. You’d be the Worldwide exclusive; ‘the story behind the story that has gripped America.’ Can you get Reed to talk about it on camera, Tia?”
“For how long? He won’t do a sit-down.”
“Longer is better, but even a few dramatic emotional seconds. Ambush him. Coldcock him on a public street. Do whatever it takes. We can stretch a few words, slow-mo his image. You know. It would harmonize with the story’s tone and our style.”
“How much?”
“One hundred.”
“Two.”
“We’ll talk when you get something.”
“I know the numbers are hot for this story, Seth.”
“Tia, can you get what’s needed?”
“Shit! There he is! Cooter! Wake up, baby!”
Reed exited the Hall of Justice.
Layne dropped her phone, spilled her coffee as she shook Cooter. He growled awake, grabbed the camera, microphone cords dragged on the sidewalk; Layne scrambled to catch Reed as they rushed to the stairs.
“Tom, please. Just a few words.”
As he recognized Layne, Reed’s distress became disdain. “Get away from me. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Reed walked fast down the street with Layne and Cooter in tow. No other press in sight.
“Tom, we know about your incident with the drug dealers, your meeting with Angela in Oakland—”
“It was you we saw. You’re stalking me?” Reed searched for a taxi.
“I’m a journalist on your story.”
“Give me a break. You’re supposed to stay away from me. Back off.”
“This is a public street. Tom, you’re a hero, doing what you’re doing, enduring the unimaginable, chasing down every lead on your own. A righteous one-man task force.”
“Get out of my face.”
“You must love Ann more than anything else in this world.”
Reed stopped, swallowed hard. Layne’s words pierced his armor, already weakened by exhaustion and trauma, steeped in guilt. His mouth moved to speak but as he walked, each step hammered his broken heart into smaller pieces, knowing what he now knew. Engler and Tribe. He was helpless.
“I’m no hero.” Reed’s eyes stung as he squinted into the sun. “My wife’s the hero. I’ll go anywhere, I’ll do anything to find her. I’ve got to bring her home. No matter what. Please just leave me alone now.”
Reed spotted a taxi and trotted to it. Layne stood there watching Cooter shoot everything. They reviewed it on playback, confirming it was all there. “I’m no hero. My wife’s the hero. I’ll go anywhere, I’ll do anything to find her. I’ve got to bring her home. No matter what.”
Layne felt the corners of her mouth ascend into the beginnings of a victory grin.
64
In Albuquerque, New Mexico, Judy, the office manager for AJRayCo, was gossiping on the phone.
“If a girl with her mileage is woman enough to keep a thirty-one-year-old stallion like that interested, then I say, God bless.”
Winn, the secretary at the city electrical department, which often contracted AJRayCo’s electricians, giggled. “It’s wild. Mack and I saw them at the Well last night, carrying on and all. Mack says, ‘That her son?’”
“You’re not serious?”
“I am.”
“Lordy, Lordy.” Judy was filing her nails staring at the portable TV at the corner of her desk. Her daytime soap was muted. “Boring today. Why don’t they move the stories along? That star’s been on her deathbed for months.”
“So, the boys at your shop pull any pranks on you lately?”
“Not really.” Judy reached for her tea. “Whatcha watching? Wait, let me guess.”
“CNN. I’m a news junkie. They’re doing something now on the woman who was abducted in that San Francisco jewelry store robbery. You know, where the police officer was murdered?”
“I thought they found her body in Arizona or California.”
“No, that woman used to work in the jewelry store. They found parts of her in each state, near Death Valley and near Winslow.”
“My God! That’s awful! How do you know all this?”
“News addict, Judy. Oh, the news conference is coming on. Live.”
“What channel?” Judy reached for her remote, surfing channels to see FBI, San Francisco police, and other officials at a table behind a mountain of microphones. Scores of news cameras were trained on them.
“Hey, Winn, that reminds me. Actually, the boys did try a new one on me a few days back. Something on this very case.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Made up a note that sounded like the kidnapped woman.”
“What? That’s not even funny, Judy. You tell them that?”
“Nope. None of them owned up to it. I think it was Sparky, he’s the sort who’d do it.”
“They really made up a note? It doesn’t make sense.” Judy wasn’t paying attention to the news conference or what the police official was saying.
“...we just want to update you on the investigation. Today we have confirmed the identities of the murder suspects who we believe are responsible for the homicides of San Francisco Police Officer Rod August, Leroy Driscoll, Carrie Dawn Addison, and the kidnapping of Ann Reed, during an armed robbery. Investigation confirms them as being...”
The camera pulled tight to the face of Delmar James Tribe and John Mark Engler. Now the two most wanted men in America.
“Look at the one guy, Judy, missing a chunk of his ear. He’s frightening. What did the note say?”
“Oh, something like ‘Call the police, I’ve been kidnapped by two white men’. It’s still up on the board. Want me to fax it to you?”
“Would you? I’m curious. I mean that’s just not funny.”
Judy went to the corkboard, sifted through the untidy collection of tool sale flyers, safety codes, state regs, and insurance forms before she found the handwritten note. She fired it through the fax to Winn. It went fast.
“Did you get it, Winn?”
“Coming through now. They just said they think the men were both convicts who did time in Folsom. They’re headed east. Here comes the fax. They said Winslow, Arizona, is the last place they have on them.”
“Winslow? That’s not too far from us.” Judy studied her TV. A printed case summary filled the screen.
Suspects:
Delmar James Tribe and John Mark Engler.
Delmar and John.