“I’m always a person of interest because I have a record. You cops and Feds hassle me every time someone steals anything within a hundred miles of me. But I’ve done my time and have been staying out of trouble, Agent Bentley. Whoever this witness is, he’s wrong about me.”
“It’s a ‘she’,” Bentley said. “You might remember her. She was the woman with the two kids that you smiled at when you were forcing the Celso brothers to load the money into your trunk.”
Ballou did remember the young mother. And yes, he had smiled at her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ballou said.
“Yeah, you do. I can see it in your eyes.”
Ballou swallowed hard at hearing those words. He couldn’t help it. Agent Bentley believed him to be guilty. That meant it was a certainty that a search warrant was in the works or soon would be. His multi-million-dollar stash was buried deep and covered up well, but that didn’t mean that it couldn’t be found.
Ballou calmed himself and asked a question. “The woman picked me out of the lineup?”
“She did.”
“Because of my smile? That’s crazy.”
“The woman is a dentist. She’s an expert at teeth.” Bentley took out his notebook, leafed through it, and found the page he was after. “She stated in her initial interview that the robber had, and I quote, ‘A discolored canine and lateral incisor in his lower jaw.’ Those same two teeth in your mouth are a shade darker than the rest of your teeth.”
Ballou already knew that but seldom thought about it. Those were the teeth he’d had knocked out when he was attacked in prison. The dentist who replaced them did a bad job of matching the color to his own teeth. He feigned a laugh.
“You’re trying to pin the robberies on me because of a couple of teeth? That’s nuts.”
“I guess we’ll see about that, Ballou. Get comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Yeah. I was wondering when you would say that.”
Ballou kept quiet until a lawyer was provided for him. The whole time he was waiting he kept thinking how stupid he had been to leave witnesses behind. He hated Larry Sheehy with a passion for inadvertently tying him to a kidnapping and murder by writing his name on a list, but the bastard had been right. Never leave a witness behind. Ballou was wishing he could go back in time and kill the damn woman he smiled at. He’d snuff her brats too, for good measure.
He only left the guards alive because he was trying to distinguish the robbery from the earlier ones he’d committed using the smoke grenades. He should have killed the guards and the damn dentist. It was thanks to her that he was considered a serious suspect.
They kept him waiting in the small windowless interrogation room for hours. Ballou knew that they must be tearing apart his tiny basement apartment and asking questions about him to the tenants. If they found the money, he could kiss freedom goodbye forever.
His lawyer appeared finally. He was a young guy with an animated face who wore his hair long and didn’t wear a tie with his suit. He smiled at Ballou and offered his hand.
“Mr. Ballou, I’m Alfredo Hunt.”
Ballou shook Hunt’s hand and discovered that he had a firm grip.
“The court assigned you to me?”
“That’s right. And I can guess what you’re thinking, but I know my stuff.”
Hunt was court-appointed, but he was also a junior partner in a major law firm. The firm did pro bono work on a regular basis. Ballou had been lucky enough to be assigned Hunt. The man was a criminal lawyer and had a fantastic record at getting his clients out of tough spots.
“If the search of your apartment doesn’t turn up anything, I’ll make certain that they release you.”
“Did they tell you why they think I’m guilty?”
Hunt gave a dismissive chuckle. “Some nonsense about the color of two of your teeth. They also say that you don’t have an alibi for the time the crime took place. The teeth thing is ridiculous and so is the lack of an alibi. The robbery was weeks ago. I bet a lot of people couldn’t say where they were at the time.”
Ballou nodded. He liked Hunt. He had enough money to hire the best criminal attorney in the world but didn’t dare attempt to use any of it. Despite being court-appointed, Alfredo Hunt had experience and looked like a fighter who would protect his rights.
Agent Bentley entered the room. He was carrying something in an envelope. Ballou tried to read his expression and couldn’t. He took that as a good sign. If they had found the money Ballou was sure that the Fed would have been smiling from ear-to-ear.
After exchanging greetings with Hunt, the agent took a seat across from them.
“We found something unexpected when we searched your apartment, Ballou. Would you like to know what it is?”
“Don’t answer,” Hunt said. “Don’t say anything.”
Ballou took the advice and remained silent. Bentley gave a little shrug, opened the envelope, then tilted it so that the contents would fall out onto the table. It was a large box of crayons. They were all yellow. Ballou felt his jaw twitch. He had exclusively used yellow crayons when making his smoke grenades. The crayons on the table had been left over from when he’d made the last batch. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to leave the things sitting around. Now they not only suspected him of being the Smiling Bandit, but also the Smoke Bandit.
Ballou opened his mouth to speak but stopped as Hunt issued a warning.
“Don’t say a word. That’s why I’m here.”
Ballou shut his mouth and nodded. Hunt pointed at the crayons. “What nonsense is this?”
“We believe it’s evidence that your client is the armored car robber known as the Smoke Bandit. That means he’s wanted on multiple counts of murder, including the slaying of a police officer.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you guys believed that Mr. Ballou was involved in that double armored car robbery in Illinois. Isn’t that guy called the Smiling Bandit?”
“That’s right. We think your client committed those crimes as well.”
“And what’s your evidence there?”
“An eyewitness picked him out of a lineup.”
“Because of his teeth, correct?”
“Yes.”
Hunt laughed. “That’s your evidence? A couple of mismatched teeth and some crayons? Are you serious?”
“The eyewitness is certain that he’s the same man she spoke to at the scene of the crime.”
Hunt pointed at Ballou’s right forearm. “I remember reading about the armored car robberies online. That man had a beard, a Boston accent, and a tattoo on his right forearm. My client has none of those. As for eyewitnesses, recent research has proven that over seventy percent of false convictions were caused by unreliable eyewitness testimony. And do I really have to mention how ridiculous the crayons are?”
“The smoke gains its hue by the use of different color crayons. The Smoke Bandit always used yellow smoke.”
“What if the color had been caused by yellow dye? Are you going to question everyone who has yellow dye in their homes?”
“Tests were performed on the grenade cannisters left behind at each scene. We know that the color came from the use of wax crayons.”
“And because you found a few yellow crayons in my client’s apartment that makes him the Smoke Bandit? Agent Bentley, that’s like saying that because my client had fried chicken in his fridge that he must be Colonel Sanders.”
“He’s a grown man. Why would he have crayons?”
“Maybe he likes coloring books, or maybe they’re not even his. They could have been left there by whoever had the apartment before him. The crayons mean nothing, and you know it.”
Bentley locked eyes with Ballou. “Oh, I know. Isn’t that right, Ballou? We’re onto you, mister. I have to admit, it was a smart move to change your M.O. and operate in another state, but I know who and what you are, and I will see that you pay for your cr
imes.”
Ballou broke eye contact. Bentley was convinced of his guilt and it would be only a matter of time before someone asked him for a DNA sample. He had to get away before that happened. It may have happened already. Bentley might have gotten a sample from his apartment. He had cut himself shaving that morning and the bloody tissue was still in the wastebasket. There was also his hairbrush.
Hunt snapped his fingers in front of Bentley’s face.
“Talk to me and not my client.”
Bentley looked annoyed by Hunt but did shift his attention back to the lawyer. “I want your client to give us a DNA sample.”
“He refuses. I also want him released. He’s done nothing and you have zero proof that he’s committed a crime.”
“We have proof.”
“Don’t bring up the teeth and the crayons again. They’re a joke. Is my client under arrest?”
Bentley nibbled his bottom lip, then spoke. “Not at this time.”
“Then he’s free to go.”
Hunt stood and gestured for Ballou to do the same. Ballou rose slowly. He kept expecting Agent Bentley to shout at him to sit down.
“We’ll be watching you, Ballou. You can count on that. And counselor, expect a court order for your client’s DNA.”
“Yeah, if a judge doesn’t laugh at your so-called ‘evidence,’” Hunt said.
Hunt gave Ballou a ride home to the rooming house. Hunt said that despite what he’d told Bentley, that it was likely that they would soon have a court order to allow them to get a sample of his DNA.
“Let them,” Ballou said, while trying to sound unconcerned. “Once they see that I don’t match the guy they’re after maybe they’ll leave me alone.”
Ballou stepped out of Hunt’s Mercedes and noticed that a police car had followed them. It parked in front of the building. They weren’t planning on letting him out of their sight.
After thanking Hunt again, Ballou rushed past the cops and went down to the basement. He had to dig up his money and get away before Agent Bentley came back.
The Feds had left the basement lights on after their search. It looked as if they had gone over everything and not bothered to put any of it back in its proper place. Ballou heard a noise coming from the area where the old furnace was. Someone was over there and making noise as they handled the metal components of the furnace’s outer shell. Ballou knew that sound well. He made it every time he hid the money.
He wondered if the search was still going on, but then he saw a flash of bright red checkered material and knew who it was. Dinkle was on his knees and using a gloved hand to clear away the soot that covered the concrete concealing the hole. The fat son of a bitch had found his hiding spot.
Ballou moved over to a wall where there were tools hanging on a sheet of pegboard. After removing a hammer, he walked toward Dinkle. Dinkle had cleared away enough soot to find the patch of concrete that was newer than the area surrounding it. He had stood up and been headed toward the tools as well. He gasped when he saw Ballou marching toward him and started talking fast.
“I won’t tell the cops a thing, Kent. Just let me have some of the money.”
Ballou stopped walking and let the hand holding the hammer drop to his side. “How did you know where to look?”
“I came down here a few weeks ago to ask you something and saw you taking apart this old furnace. I watched you until you began tearing up the floor. I wondered what you were hiding under there. I never dreamed that it would be money. But it is, isn’t it? You’re the guy they call the Smiling Bandit.”
“And now you want some of the money to keep your mouth shut?”
Dinkle nodded. “Did you really get away with six million dollars?”
“It was almost seven million.”
Dinkle laughed. “Wow! I’ll take half. I’m not greedy.”
“Half, hmm?” Ballou said.
“Yeah, or I’ll call the cops.”
Dinkle didn’t consider Ballou to be dangerous because he knew that Ballou hadn’t hurt the two armored car guards during the robbery. That was a mistake. Ballou advanced on him while raising up the hammer. He sank the claw end of it into the top of Dinkle’s skull. Dinkle’s hands went to his head as he dropped to his knees. Ballou swung the hammer repeatedly until Dinkle stopped moving.
Ballou looked down at the fat man’s corpse. He’d spent more than a year setting things up so that he could walk away clean and start a new life without having to look over his shoulder. Everything had fallen apart in a matter of hours.
He had a corpse in his living area, a Fed convinced of his culpability in multiple robberies and murders, and that same Fed would soon show up looking to get a DNA sample that would prove his guilt.
Ballou moved over to the old oil furnace and went to work on the layer of concrete with the hammer. There was no time to waste.
The money didn’t weigh a ton, but it was well over a hundred pounds. Ballou stuffed his shotgun in a backpack along with some of the money before looking for something to place the rest of it into. When his eyes fell upon Dinkle’s body he got an idea.
He wouldn’t make it very far with two cops outside. And even if he got past them, more cops would begin looking for him soon. He needed a disguise. He still had the phony beard he’d worn on his last robbery, as it had been hidden with the money and the shotgun, but he needed to change his appearance in other ways.
When he left the basement, he had millions in cash strapped to his body by using duct tape and trash bags. He had done it in such a way that the mound on his midsection resembled Dinkle’s enormous gut. After putting on Dinkle’s sport coat, Ballou thought that he could pass for the fat man from a distance. The beard helped as well, although it was much fuller and several shades darker than Dinkle’s face fuzz.
He stepped through the front door of the rooming house and saw the cops pause in their conversation and look his way. After a second, they went back to talking. He knew he looked a bit odd in a way that would draw attention, but he no longer looked like the man the cops had been told to keep an eye on, so they had no reason to speak to him or attempt to detain him.
He moved down the steps slowly, the way a fat man would. It would have been difficult for him to move any other way thanks to the weight of the money. He didn’t dare risk using his van in case the cops were aware that it was his, so, he waddled down the sidewalk to where he could get on a bus or flag down a cab. The heavy backpack swung at his side and the stock of the shotgun kept banging against his right knee.
He was two blocks away and crossing the street when he saw him. It was Agent Bentley. He and his humorless female partner were parked at a traffic light. If Bentley was headed toward the rooming house, that meant that he was coming to get a sample of his DNA.
Too late, asshole.
Bentley looked his way as the light changed and said something to his partner. Ballou kept his head down and continued to waddle along. The Fed’s car began moving and Ballou relaxed. By the time Bentley entered the building and found Dinkle’s corpse he should be out of sight. He’d find a place, perhaps an abandoned building, to lie low for a while, then get away for good once the heat died down.
That plan went to hell when he looked over his shoulder and saw that Bentley had made a U-turn and was headed back towards him while speeding. By the time the Fed screeched his vehicle to a stop at the curb, Ballou had freed the sawed-off shotgun from the backpack.
Ballou was taking aim at Bentley through the driver’s side window when Bentley’s partner, Agent Fennelly, popped out of the car on the passenger side. She was standing on the bottom section of the door frame in order to fire over the roof of the car. The woman shot at him twice. Her angle was bad, and her aim was low, and the slugs struck the backpack, which was sitting on the ground. One of the slugs burst a band on a package of hundred-dollar bills and the money was lifted into the air by the breeze.
Ballou shot her twice. Only two pellets from the first blast struck her, while the se
cond shotgun round just about severed her right arm and shredded a breast. Fennelly released a piercing scream and fell backwards into the street. With her threat ended, Ballou took aim at Bentley and found that the agent was no longer seated behind the wheel. Bentley had dived out of the open passenger door. He reappeared when he peeked over the hood at the front of the car. Unlike his partner, Bentley was wise enough to use the engine block as cover. Bentley fired three shots at Ballou. Two of the bullets struck the money Ballou had strapped to his midsection. He felt the pain of impact; however, the banded stacks of paper had kept the rounds from piercing his flesh. The third round had struck as well. Instead of hitting the money, it had severed one of the shoulder straps that held the bundle in place. The shifting of the money’s weight caused Ballou to lose his balance and he stumbled sideways. By doing so, he avoided the next three rounds fired by Bentley. When the agent went to fire again, his weapon jammed.
Bentley grunted in frustration and rushed toward Ballou, who was having trouble righting himself with the weight of the wrapped money hanging awkwardly from one strap. With each step he took, Bentley left a red shoe print in his wake. It was his partner’s blood. She was bleeding out from the severe injuries she’d suffered. Bentley tackled him. The shotgun skittered away on the sidewalk as they hit the ground together.
Bentley was pressing a forearm across Ballou’s throat in an effort to choke him out. Ballou could feel consciousness slipping away as he freed a knife from a sheath on his belt. The relentless pressure of Bentley’s forearm relaxed when he slammed the blade in between the agent’s ribs. He continued to stab the man, rejoicing in his cries of agony. When he rose to one knee, in preparation to stand, he looked back toward the rooming house and saw the red and blue lights of the police car come to life. They had heard the shooting and were coming to investigate.
As he made it to his feet, Ballou saw that the traffic had come to a stop. Slack-jawed faces stared at him from windshields. In one vehicle, a woman was covering a little girl’s eyes, so that she wouldn’t see the bloody mess that Agent Fennelly had become. Altogether, there had to be over a dozen people who had just witnessed his murder of the FBI agents. He had no time to kill them all although he knew from bitter experience that it was the thing to do.
Past Imperfect Page 10
