Memories of a Murder

by Sid Kar

  “That’s not what you wrote in the report,” Arthur whispered to Frank when they were beyond the hearing distance of the reporters.

  “You want to tell them he is a rogue operative from intelligence community?” Frank whispered back, “you will start a political uproar.”

  “Yes, I guess you are right,” Arthur replied.

  The personal office of the Superintendent of the State Police was all the way at the end and a trooper stood guard outside and there were two desks on either side of the door for his secretaries.

  “Why are they here?” Arthur asked one of the secretaries pointing behind him with his thumb.

  “Colonel is giving a press conference about the shooting that happened last night,” she replied.

  “Looks like that’s what we are here for,” Frank said to Joe, “to stand behind in a photo op.”

  Frank hated photos and press conferences, and he made faces at the reporters whenever he was asked to stand behind the senior officers for these media events.

  The trooper opened the door for them and shut it closed when they had gone in. Frank saw three individuals in there.

  Front and center behind his large, oak desk in a rather large black leather chair was Colonel Edward Galloway, the superintendent of NJ State Police. He was an old man, lean and gaunt, his face weary and wrinkled, with strands of fine white hair protruding out of his cap. He was holding a paper with creases in his hand and an envelope lay beneath it.

  Seated to his right side, was Major Kenneth Peck, the Commanding Officer of the Investigations Section and Arthur’s boss. He was a bulky and stocky man, of wide shoulders and thick face cheeks with a large forehead to go with them. He was built like a tank, fitting for a former tank sergeant from the first Gulf War.

  A tall woman in red leather jacket, black jeans and yellow hair tied in a long pony tail stood to the left of Colonel Edward. Frank thought she was perhaps the Colonel’s grandniece doing an internship or shadowing him. But she appeared to be too old to be a college student; she appeared closer to his own age.

  Then Frank saw the fourth individual standing behind the girl, slightly hidden, and his eyes popped in shock when the recognition hit.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Frank asked.

  Edward had opened his mouth to begin just when Frank barked loudly and he stared at Frank and shook his head.

  “Sorry, Colonel, I didn’t mean to…”

  “Forget it,” Edward replied.

  “Frank, I didn’t tell them anything. But they found out,” Scott spoke sheepishly.

  “For the record, your friend did not rat you out,” the woman said matter-of-factly, “we had a red flag on Travis Boone, anyone who did a search…”

  “Who?” Frank asked.

  “The man you know as Panther,” the woman continued, “anyone who does a search in the databases for Travis automatically alerts the Directorate of Operations.”

  “Now wait a minute…” Frank protested, “What does this…”

  “Your friend blurted everything out even before we began a simple interrogation,” she said, “We have read his file. You recommended him for a logistics role even though he started as a lieutenant in the infantry. Your friend has an anxiety problem,” she put her hand on Scott’s shoulder, “Sorry, Scott.”

  Scott nodded his head and looked down at his shoes avoiding anyone’s eyesight.

  “But I am not so easily deterred,” Frank gave her a cold stare, “you take action against him and I will make sure Panther’s name and his connection to you is stamped on the front page of every newspaper and news website.”

  “Frank…” Edward spoke, “There is no need for that. Lady has agreed to go easy on your friend.”

  “Yes, he is your friend but also one of us and we look after our own,” she said, “he did nothing wrong so far. He performed a search in a database he has proper access to. He didn’t actually give you the printouts of Panther’s profile which is classified. And considering it was in the course of a legitimate law enforcement inquiry, we will let it slide. We would have preferred it came through proper channels.”

  Who the hell is we? Who the hell are you? Frank wanted to say but he did not want to be rude again in front of his senior officers, so he said instead, “Who are you, lady?”

  “My name is Clara Bridges, but what my position is and what I do, are no concern of yours,” Clara said, “what should concern you is that I have been tasked by the Director of Clandestine Service to help apprehend Travis Boone.”

  “And I have accepted the Director’s offer for help,” Edward said holding up the letter.

  “But why involve them?” Frank asked, “we are closing in on him. All I need is his file.”

  “I stand behind my detectives,” Arthur said, “I am confident they can catch him on their own.”

  Frank was pleasantly surprised, glad that the Captain had decided to throw in his lot with them. Even he must have felt his turf stepped on.

  “This man has proven extremely dangerous,” Major Kenneth Peck stood up towering above them all. He spoke in his booming voice, “he escaped the police dragnet while injured by swimming in icy cold water in pitch dark. He has killed one man, attempted to kill two college students and shot at two of you…”

  “Not at Joe,” Frank said.

  “Boy would be dead if he had taken a shot at me,” Joe said.

  Frank, Arthur and Scott guffawed, Edward chuckled and even Kenneth smiled, reducing the tension in the room. Only Clara stood there befuddled.

  “Too bad you didn’t, Joe,” Edward said, “be that as may, Kenneth and I have decided Clara will be part of your investigation, Frank. She gets full access to all the materials related to your case, in exchange they will let you see all of their classified reports on Panther.”

  “As you say, Colonel,” Frank informally saluted him.

  Frank, Joe, Clara and Scott left the room while Arthur was asked to stay behind.

  They walked out of the front door where the four troopers outside had already pushed the reporters and cameramen to a side. The reporters tried to rush them but the troopers held them back and Frank turned to the stairs so they didn’t have to wait for the elevators and give the journalists an opportunity to approach them.

  “Back to Washington, Scott?” Frank asked, “It will be a long drive.”

  “No, Frank, I got two week’s administrative leave due to this incident,” Scott replied.

  “Sorry, Scott, I should not have involved you,” Frank said.

  “But I am glad you did,” Clara interjected, “all this time we were under the impression Travis was out of the country.”

  “At least the leave is paid,” Scott put on a fake smile.

  “It’s a paid vacation then,” Joe slapped Scott on his back in a congratulatory manner, “Frank, ask me to leak some report, so Colonel Ed gives me a paid vacation too. I will watch wrestling in bed,” Joe laughed.

  They reached the Major Crimes floor where Scott took his leave. Frank and Joe brought Clara along with them to their office.

  “Joe, go down to the ballistics and see if the tests have been done and if the results are in,” Frank said.

  “Right, on it, Frank,” Joe left the room.

  Frank picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to Clara.

  “This is all the paperwork. Reports I have done for this case,” Frank said, “take them with you if you don’t finish today, but don’t lose them. You know how to handle confidential documents.”

  She nodded then pulled out a file from under her jacket and handed it to Frank who flipped through the pages.

  “Must have twenty or thirty pages…”

  “Twenty five,”

  “I will read them, but give me a summary. Who is this Travis Boone? What’s his angle? Who is he working for?” Frank asked.

  “If I knew who he was working for, I would have solved your case for you, Detective Frank,” she smiled for the first time since they had
met.

  “Just Frank,” he replied.

  “Frank, I will tell you the important parts,” Clara said, “He was sent to assassinate a warlord in Helmand Province who controlled big opium cultivation and his own heroin producing operation. This warlord was buying weapons from his heroin sales and selling surplus to Taliban insurgents.”

  “Helmand, now I remember. That’s where I saw him occasionally,” Frank said, “you know I was there too, but I was Army.”

  “I know. I read your file,” Clara said, “your background led me to believe, led us to believe, you were the right person to cooperate with. Anyways, we didn’t realize he had already gone rogue and was actually in the pay of the warlord. He was being paid in bags of pure heroin which he was bringing in the country as diplomatic packages.”

  “Procured from the selfsame warlord?” Frank asked.

  “Exactly. He tipped of his target – his paymaster – who went into hiding, and Travis himself disappeared soon thereafter,” Clara said, “We thought he was putting his skills to work as a drug courier between Central Asia and Europe. But now we learned he has snuck back into the US.”

  “He must have found a more lucrative job here,” Frank said scratching his chin, “this puzzles me even more. Adam did some odd cigarette smuggling for the mob, might have skimmed off a bit too. But who would pay an assassin like Panther such high figure that he would abandon lucrative heroin smuggling to take up a job to take out a middle class truck driver? And why?”

  Just then Joe knocked on the glass door and entered.

  “He is our boy,” Joe said, “Matthew confirmed that the bullets fired last night came from the same gun as the bullet that went through Adam’s head.”

  “No surprise there, but now we can go to trial,” Frank said, “what took you so long?”

  “You know, just talking shop with Matt,” Joe grinned.

  “I heard there were blood drops from Panther,” Clara said, “you have DNA. Open and shut case. You don’t need anything else.”

  “Nothing is open and shut based on droplets and fragments,” Frank replied, “some other detectives go to trial with the flimsiest of evidence, but not me. I don’t trust these particles, microfibers, a hair here, a drop there; these fancy techniques that have invaded detective work in recent years. I follow baseball’s rules: three strikes to knock you out. I want three solid, independent pieces of evidence before I tell the prosecutor to slam the book.”

  “My boy Frank is thorough and methodical,” Joe said.

  “Right, a case built on material facts and unbroken chain of logic,” Frank said.

  “These techniques are supported by scientific lab work,” Clara said.

  “My father was a chemist,” Frank laughed, “even in their industrial lab they had contamination, lab tech errors, false interpretations and plain botch ups. I have a record of 24 convictions out of 37 murder cases since I started as a Homicide Detective; you may look at those 13 that are currently cold or you can look at those 24, not one convict has been exonerated since then due to any new evidence. Same can’t be said for some other detectives’ cases.”

  “Mason Curly would put a dog on trial if a witness told him there was barking at the time of a murder,” Joe quipped.

  “That would become the case of the dog that did bark,” Frank chuckled.

  “Ok…” Clara said, “but there is no doubt about Travis Boone aka Panther. We must eliminate him.”

  “Apprehend him,” Frank said.

  “That’s what I meant,” Clara smiled nervously, “slip of tongue.”

  Afterwards, all of them sat around quietly and read. Frank went through Panther’s file, while Clara flipped through Frank’s report. Joe was on his computer browsing internet in between reading new reports from early morning but they too had no mention of any suspicious, injured individual.

  “You are yawning,” Frank noticed Clara was tired after he had finished his reading.

  “Got up really early to get here from DC,” Clara replied, “I will finish this later.” She shut the folder close.

  “Let’s call it an early day,” Frank said, “Joe, if my car is ready I will drop her off and catch up with you later tonight.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Joe said.

  Frank, Joe and Clara walked down to the police mechanic’s garage.

  Frank’s cruiser was parked outside the garage and the mechanic was leaning inside the driver’s side.

  “What’s going on, Andy? She done or what?” Joe asked.

  “You bet Joe, just checking the new headlights I put in,” Andy, the mechanic, turned the headlights on and off a few times.

  “They work fine,” Frank said.

  “Detective Frank, she is all yours,” Andy got out and flipped the key to Frank, “we took the chance to wash and shine her for you.”

  “Thanks, Andy,” Frank replied then turned to Joe, “I am going to drop her off.”

  Clara got in on the passenger side and sat down. She stretched her legs but struck the shotgun under the dashboard and pulled her shoe back in surprise.

  “Be careful,” Frank said getting in on the other side.

  Joe leaned over the open window, put his forearms on the window sill and grinned at Clara.

  “I ride shotgun with Frank,” Joe said, “from tomorrow you will be sitting in the back.”

  “Oh really?” Clara squinted at him.

  “You got to be able to handle the shotgun to sit there…”

  “I know how to use that.”

  “…without dislocating your shoulder,” Joe guffawed.

  Clara rolled her eyes and looked away from Joe.

  “Don’t mind him,” Frank chuckled as Joe walked away to his car.

  “What’s with your partner?” Clara asked rolling up the window.

  “Nothing is with him,” Frank said starting the car, “and he is more than just a partner. He is my best friend.”

  Frank drove onto the street and soon they were on the highway.

  “Oh where are you staying?” Frank said, “punch in your hotel name in the GPS.”

  Clara entered the name of an expensive business hotel into the dashboard GPS and Frank turned on the volume for the directions.

  “So, are you going to tell me about him?” Clara asked looking at him, “your best friend.”

  “What do you want to know?” Frank asked.

  “For starters, why is his uniform different than everybody else, not the blue like rest of you, but black, like local police I have seen in Jersey,” Clara said.

  “Alright, I am going to tell you a little bit of history,” Frank said, “but only because you will be working with us for a few days and I don’t want misunderstanding between you and him.”

  “You better, his piggish humor is already grating on me,” Clara said.

  “He had some difficulty learning in school,” Frank said.

  “You went to school with him? No way, high school buddies, cop buddies,” Clara laughed loudly trying to cover her mouth with her fingers.

  “I did, but only for three years,” Frank said, “and he wasn’t special ed. or anything like that. Took regular classes, managed to pass most of them, sometimes with my help. He just had difficulties.”

  “Strange friends,” Clara said.

  “I was born and grew up in Cherry Hill in South Jersey…”

  “That’s where Scott Biddle is from right?”

  “Scott is a friend from the first grade, both of us thought about joining the Army together,” Frank said, “Me more for the thrill and Scott, well he was always the apprehensive type. He thought Army would toughen him up, and it did to some extent. But the infantry was not for him. I would have chosen a different specialty for him.”

  “And how did you end up with…Joe?” Clara asked.

  “My father, who was a chemist with a pharmaceutical company at the time, saw how much money the lawyers made and decided to become a patent lawyer,” Frank said, “so he got himself adm
itted to Seton Hall Law School and we moved closer for his commute to Gaston Township in Central Jersey when I started 10th grade. I was new, Joe was a loner, other kids didn’t much care for him; neither of us had friends; we lived close by, became friends.”

  “Joe was bullied?”

  “Joe!” Frank guffawed, “he was the best wrestler in school. Nobody would have dared. No, you might think because he had no friends, but it wasn’t like that. Other kids just left him alone. And he was the grandson of Gaston’s former police chief of many years.”

  “That’s how he got the job of a police officer?” Clara asked.

  “Don’t take it wrong. He deserved it,” Frank said, “He idolized his Grandpa and he even taught me to shoot with his Grandpa’s famous revolver.”

  “He was allowed to possess that?” Clara asked skeptically.

  “Not really, but it’s a small town, many older police officers worked under his grandpa. They told him to just keep it on his property,” Frank said, “it’s a famous revolver with which his grandpa shot down a bank robber when he was a state police trooper. Our Colonel Ed. was a rookie partner of his grandpa; they pursued these two bank robbers, chased them across back roads and highways for over an hour. Colonel Ed. shot down one carrying a revolver, but Grandpa Jack Marsh gunned down the robber firing his Tommy Gun in the town of Gaston. That’s how he got the offer to be the town’s police chief.”

  “But why is Joe with you?” Clara asked.

  “He drew cartoons,” Frank said.

  “Cartoons? What does that…”

  “He was being investigated by his town’s internal affairs over something stupid, way he responded to some call. They asked him to submit an explanation and he turned in a cartoon sketch of his behavior,” Frank said.

  “That is actually funny,” Clara laughed.

  “He has always wanted to be a cartoonist, even did that during high school, turned in cartoons for assignments. He still draws cartoons and talks about it,” Frank chuckled, “anyways, making a long story short, the town didn’t want him on their force but was also sympathetic to him. I heard about it and proposed having him as my partner to our superintendent. He too had fond memories of Joe’s grandpa. He is still his town’s deputy but he works strictly with me. No independent patrol work.”