by Sid Kar
Frank made a hard left and narrowly missed hitting the incoming local police cruiser. They called out to him but he ignored them. He made another left at the end of the street and was now on Easton Avenue, one of the major roads of the town.
Frank accelerated all the way to the small park ahead of him and as he had expected he saw a figure running diagonally across the park. The Raritan River flowed just after the street at the end of the park.
Frank turned his car into the park and jammed the gas pedal. The park was dark and unlit but Frank’s headlights fell right on the figure. The figure turned once to take a look then kept running. Frank put his Glock on his dashboard. He had full intentions to run Panther over with his car. This was one man Frank dare not risk trying to arrest, not without backup, not in the dark where he couldn’t see Panther’s hands.
Suddenly Panther stopped running, turned around and while Frank couldn’t see clearly, his instinct was to duck below the dashboard. Panther fired three shots—the first two took out each of his headlights and the third one knocked out the lights on the top of the car. All three shots on target. Frank braked, grabbed his Glock, opened his door and using it as cover, aimed his pistol where he had last seen Panther.
That was a smart move, Frank knew. Without the lights, he had no idea where Panther was, all he could hear was the faint sound of the footsteps running towards the grove of the trees at the end of the park.
Frank jumped back into the car, turned it sideways and cut across the park. Panther was going for the river and Frank knew exactly where he would attempt the jump. Frank had ignored the frenetic chatter on the police radio so far but now he picked up his speaker even as he drove.
“This is Detective Frank of the State Police in pursuit of a murder suspect to the intersection of George and Landing. The suspect is armed and dangerous and ready to shoot,” Frank said, “Approach in pairs.”
His car reached the George Street at the end of the park that separated it from the river ahead. Frank attempt a left turn when a car honked at him. Frank had almost forgotten he had no lights left. Still he turned behind the car and started honking like mad to get the cars to get out of his way. The other drivers, not recognizing a police cruiser in the dark, honked back and yelled curses at him.
Then Frank saw Panther running ahead parallel to the street dashing towards the Landing Lane bridge. Frank pursued him in the car while pressing his horn all the way till he reached the bridge. Frank got out of the car and took cover behind his door with his pistol aimed at Panther who was now right next to the bridge railing. Panther saw the police cruiser from the corner of his eye, swung his pistol arm and fired two shots which struck the driver’s door in front of Frank. Frank ducked momentarily but then raised his pistol again and fired two shots at Panther. Panther had already climbed the railing and he jumped into the river narrowly escaping Frank’s bullets.
Frank ran ahead on the bridge which spanned the entire length of the Raritan River and looked over the railing with his pistol aimed at the spot with splash and ripples. He watched for a minute but no one surfaced. With his training, Panther could stay underwater at least for two minutes.
A couple of local police cars drove up to the bridge and four officers ran up to him with their own pistols drawn.
“Detective, did he go in the water?” one of them asked.
“Yeah,” Frank sighed with disappointment.
“Water will be really cold, he won’t get far,” he replied.
“He will have to bank somewhere close,” another added, “some patrol should pick him up.”
But Frank knew he had lost Panther today. Frank was thinking back to his own survival training in cold, wet swamps. He said nothing but went back to his cruiser and drove back to the house.
There were at least eight police cars surrounding the house. Frank parked at a distance and looked around on the sidewalk and into the alley where Panther had run. There were blood spots everywhere. He had definitely injured him and at least one pellet must be stuck inside him. Frank walked back to the house where multiple local police officers were milling around, interviewing, collecting items and walking up and down the stairs.
“Excuse me, who is in charge here?” Frank asked loudly.
“I am,” a New Brunswick police sergeant replied, “what happened here? You could have given us a courtesy call.”
“I didn’t know that the killer was going to be here,” Frank said, “And this is a State Police investigation. Actually, there is nothing to investigate in this house, only a potential witness we came to interview.”
“The shooting upstairs…” Sgt. said
“I will have our ballistics and crime scene examiners come up here. Now, Sergeant, do wait outside the house with your officers, I will be over soon.”
Sergeant looked at Frank intently and unhappily but he wasn’t about to defy him. He collected his local PD officers and walked out.
“Joe, bring Steve Winters with you,” Frank said and walked into a small corner room that was being used as a storage space by the house residents. Joe and Steve walked in and Frank closed the door.
“Hey, I want my lawyer,” Steve said.
“Kidding me? You are the eyewitness,” Frank said, “that man is our suspect. He came to kill you.”
All color evaporated from Steve’s face and he stood there speechless.
“We know you were driving drunk on Thursday night on Route 1 South,” Frank said and watched Steve’s legs twitch nervously, “but we don’t care about that. We are homicide detectives. All I want to know is confirmation that you saw the face of a man walking out of the motor home park in Oldwood.”
“I did,” Steve said, “I should not have, but I did. I am sorry. I had too much to drink. I didn’t mean to. I was driving slow, then I see this man walk towards his car on the shoulder. I was curious, for no reason. I stared out the passenger side window and looked at him for a couple of seconds. He gave me a bad look. Was that him up there?”
“Was this the guy?” Frank asked and showed him the composite sketch he had made earlier.
“Yes, I am sure,” Steve replied, “I was drunk, but not that drunk. It was him. Was it this guy upstairs?”
“We ask the questions here,” Frank said and folded the sketch in his pocket.
Frank and Joe brought Steve along with them as they left the house. The local PD sergeant approached them.
“Sgt., work out some police protection for this kid,” Frank said.
“Why don’t you? It’s your investigation,” Sgt. replied.
“It’s your town. You want all those parents flipping mad at you? Calling the mayor?” Frank grinned.
“What else?” Sgt. sighed.
“We are borrowing one of your cars,” Frank said.
“Detective, first you kick me and mine off of a site of a violent crime in my own hood, and now you want one of my cars?” Sgt. asked.
“I will throw you a bone,” Frank said, “Why don’t you go set up yellow tape upstairs till my forensics team gets here. Don’t want some drunk kid puking over evidence.”
“Frank is generous, Sarge” Joe guffawed, “thems your bone, thems for you to chew upon.”
“Frank, you got that sketch from Err Friedrich’s brain memory?” Joe asked on their way back.
“It is Herr Friedrich, Joe and it’s from Adam’s brain,” Frank replied.
“Same difference,” Joe smiled.
“That’s why I can’t use it,” Frank said, “don’t matter. Now we know for sure it’s Panther.”
“Boy is good, like you had said,” Joe said, “Steve needs witness protection.”
“Remind me to put in the papers for it tomorrow,” Frank said, “But I don’t think Panther will come after him again. That’s why I let him know that we knew about him. His whole reason to go after Steve was to keep his identity a secret. Now Steve doesn’t matter.”
“He still an eyewitness,” Joe said.
“A drunk one, usel
ess in a trial, we aren’t putting him on a stand. Any defense attorney will knock him down,” Frank replied.
“Are we still visiting that Tim fella?” Joe asked.
“Good you reminded me. Let’s write him off for good,” Frank said.
Frank and Joe drove up to Tim Davis’ house and knocked on the door. Frank was totally convinced Panther had stolen his license plates but he saw the plates were still on the Black Accord parked outside the house. Maybe Panther had fake plates made?
A middle aged woman opened the door and Frank and Joe just walked passed her to the dinner table where Tim Davis sat eating with his two daughters seated on either side. He dropped his spoon when he saw the two policemen.
“Apologies, Mr. Davis. You are a murder suspect, but you can clear yourself right now by taking off your shirt,” Frank said.
“What is this?” Tim asked irritated.
“You will be cleared of suspicion faster than anyone I ever have, if you just take off your shirt,” Frank said.
The man was befuddled but he stood up and unbuttoned his collared shirt and put it aside on his chair. Frank looked at his stomach, walked over to him, turned him around 360 degree then sat him down again.
“Boy has no wound. He ain’t the Panther,” Joe said.
“Boy? I have at least a decade on you,” Tim said to Joe, “And you are comparing me to an animal?”
“Forget all this,” Frank said, “We never came.”
Frank and Joe walked out leaving the bewildered family behind to mull over this brief but strange interlude in the course of their dinner.
CHAPTER 10
Tuesday, Day 6
Frank borrowed Joe’s car and left his house early that morning. He gave instructions for Joe to return the car they had borrowed from New Brunswick PD and then to take a taxi to the headquarters. His own cruiser had been towed away late at night. He knew it would take at least a day for the lights to be replaced. Hopefully the bullets hadn’t bounced off and struck any engine parts under the hood.
He drove down to the town of Cherry Hill and past the house of his friend Scott Biddle. He went over to the café where he had told Scott to blatantly park his car in front of the fire hydrant. But there was no car at that spot. He looked for the Scott’s car in the parking lot but didn’t find it. Frank decided to hunker down and wait. It was bitter cold that morning and temperatures had plunged into the single digits overnight. Frank hadn’t even taken off his thick gloves even with his vents spewing heat on high.
Frank became restless as time went on and Scott was a no show. He was angry when he was there for nearly forty five minutes. He didn’t have a burner phone to call Scott, but he knew it wouldn’t be good for an anonymous number to call him. His employers must be monitoring all the phone calls to its analysts and operatives.
Frank lost patience when he had spent an hour twiddling his thumbs. He searched for a recent photo of Scott on one of his social media profiles and walked into the café. It was nearly empty this early and only one patron was ahead of him in the line.
“What will you have officer?” a lady asked a minute later.
“Tall ice coffee, two creams, two sugars,” Frank replied.
“Ice coffee in this weather?” the lady replied pretending to shiver.
“Always,” Frank grinned, “by the way, did this man come here today?”
Frank held up his phone with the photo of Scott taking up the screen. The lady looked at it and so did a couple others who worked there.
“Not today,” she replied.
“But he does come here?” Frank asked.
“Once or twice a week, very early,” she said.
“That’s him then,” Frank said. He returned to his car with his iced coffee. So they had recognized Scott in there, but he hadn’t come here. Maybe he panicked, that would not be out of his character, Frank thought. Or maybe he didn’t want to do a round trip from Washington DC again.
Frank started his car and pulled up on the highway. He would come again tomorrow, but if Scott was a no show, he would wait for the weekend. The file on Panther would have helped in tracking him down, but he would start by sifting through the reports from the patrol cars last night.
Frank reached the headquarters and went straight for the mechanic’s shop. He saw Joe coming the other way.
“I asked them for you, Frank,” Joe said.
“What they say?” Frank asked.
“Luckily only lights need replacing, no other damage,” Joe replied, “they will have it for you to take home.”
“Good to hear,” Frank replied.
They walked up the stairs to their floor.
“Frank, look what that sergeant from New Brunswick gave me this morning when I went to drop off their car,” Joe held out a plastic box that contained pellets.
“From my shot?” Frank asked.
Joe nodded.
“I told them to leave this to us,” Frank said.
“Sgt. said you told him to stay out of the house, he collected them from outside,” Joe smirked.
“There is sixteen here,” Frank said counting through the transparent plastic, “how many are in those buckshot shells that you load in Benelli?”
“Nine pellets per shot, my first shot went clean, you hit the boy with two from the second,” Joe said.
“Assuming Sgt. and his officers found all the ones,” Frank said.
“You hit him with at least one,” Joe said, “we should check hospitals and urgent care centers.”
“We will, but I doubt anything will come of it. He was a field operative. His type can take care of wounds like that by themselves,” Frank said, “the way he ran from me, I don’t think he was injured seriously enough to risk outside medical help.”
Frank and Joe reached their floor and walked down the hallway all the way to the end to their office.
“What we doing this morning, Frank?” Joe asked.
“You know what a shooting means,” Frank looked up.
“Paperwork for Captain Arthur?” Joe grinned.
“That’s what I plan to do, get a summary to him and a form or two before he asks so he will feel churlish asking me to write a full-report so soon,” Frank said, “But I have couple tasks for you. Check local hospitals, urgent care, medical centers; and also all the reports that came in from the patrol cars searching along the banks of the Raritan River last night; and any 911 calls reporting a suspicious or injured figure in the area.”
“Will do, Frank,” Joe nodded and left the office.
Joe returned in the afternoon looking dejected.
“Nothing, Frank,” he said, “Not a single call, no report from anywhere.”
“Don’t feel bad, Joe. His types are trained to hide and survive in a foreign country, in wild, extreme environments,” Frank said thinking back to his own training in places like Alaska, the Everglades and the Mojave Desert. “Here he should have no problem mingling and staying below the radar.”
“Want to go to ballistics?” Joe asked.
“Let’s grab lunch first,” Frank said, “got up early, no breakfast, hungry as hell.”
Frank and Joe walked out and on the way out. Frank peeked in Arthur’s office, found it empty and flung his report inside which landed on the corner of his desk.
They had lunch at a local burger joint. Joe chomped down on two half pound burgers, one with American cheese, lettuce, fried onion rings and topped with ketchup and other one loaded with jalapenos, blue cheese, bacon, fried egg and topped with mustard. He washed it all down with 24 ounces of soda. Frank had only a steak with a small cup of cold brew. As they were about to leave, Frank saw the television behind the bar show scenes from the house where they had the shootout yesterday.
“A serial killer!” Frank exclaimed when he saw the headline, “these damned media reporters are spreading fear.”
“You gonna set them straight, Frank?” Joe asked.
“Captain won’t be happy with me talking to the press,” Fra
nk said. “Let’s go back, check out ballistics and talk to Arthur.”
They returned to the headquarters and first went to their office where Frank wanted to check his messages. Afterwards they headed out towards the ballistics.
“Frank, Joe, to the Superintendent’s office,” Captain Arthur called out to their backs, “follow me.”
Frank and Joe looked at each other for a second, then turned around and walked towards Arthur who was already heading towards the elevators.
“Damn Frank, it’s like we are back in high school, getting sent to the Superintendent’s office,” Joe chuckled.
“Joe, I was never sent to the superintendent’s office in high school,” Frank replied.
Detective Mason Curly overheard them from his cubicle nearby. He stood up and said to Joe, “Looks like Donut is going to get written up.”
“Looks like Curly is going to get beaten up,” Joe replied.
Mason Curly got angry and walked around the cubicle, but Frank stepped in front of him and stared him down, “Go back, Curly.”
Curly backed down but not before exchanging angry looks with Joe.
Arthur, Frank and Joe took the elevator to the top floor. As they walked out in the lobby, a mob of reporters rushed them from all sides with their microphones and video cameras in their hands.
“Who the hell let them in here?” Arthur asked.
“Captain, Detective, why are the police quiet on the case of the serial killer who ran away yesterday?” one of the reporters asked thrusting her microphone in their face.
“No comments,” Arthur said.
“Same,” Frank added, “but he is not a damned serial killer.”
“He was in a college girl’s room,” another reporter said.
“But he was not there for her,” Frank said, “It’s a mob hitman. No further comments.”
By then, four troopers from the office had walked out and they pushed the reporters back and cleared a path for them to go in through the front door.