Colleen’s expression turned from sunny to curious.
"You’ve heard of the amygdala region?" Colleen asked skeptically.
"Sure," he said as he glanced upward, trying to treat her newfound interest in him nonchalantly, "for years really. I came across it while doing research for my seminars."
Tom snorted loudly and almost woke himself, nearly rolling off the couch just as Jack leaned over and pushed him back.
"What research was that?" Colleen asked, still skeptical.
"My basic research on crime and its causes… remember? The plan was to drive people into hysterics at the seminar, and to do that I had to sound convincing on stage. There was no telling what background the audience members would have, so I studied the subject for over a year before I ever went on the road.
"I learned some fascinating theories too, of course everyone has a theory about the origins of crime, from the 'apple' incident in the Garden of Eden, to one I thought made the most sense, called ECT, or the 'Evolutionary Criminal Theory'."
"Go on," an astonished Colleen said as she put down her own research and gave Jack her full attention.
Jack decided to give her the long version.
"If you look at the animal kingdom, the very act of survival requires every individual to commit what we would now call crimes, on a daily basis. Not just run of the mill crimes either, I’m talking violent crimes like assault and murder. In human evolution then, there must have been a point that we as a species became self-aware that 'crime' was different from 'survival', and that 'crime' was wrong.
"Imagine an early hunting party who kills more than they need to survive. Somebody at one point had to see the difference between killing to survive and killing just to kill. Perhaps that realization didn’t come until they had wiped out all the easy non-threatening game and had to take on more dangerous prey to survive.
"ECT theory states that what we call crime, originated out of the well-known fight or flight instinct in each of us. Let’s say some band of early humans planned a hunt, and at the last minute discovered they have attacked too big an animal. Some flee, some die fighting it. Of course the ones that were killed don’t learn anything from the experience." Jack smiled at Colleen just to keep things light before continuing.
"But the survivors learned plenty while they nursed their wounds. It didn’t take many failed hunting trips to realize it may be safer and more lucrative to steal a rival hunting party’s haul than risk getting gored or bitten yourself.
"The theory suggests there was only a small leap between the act of killing prey for meat to survive, and killing one or more of your own because they were more successful than you at hunting. Of course, this would require the aggressors to become skilled in acts requiring cunning and deception, even treachery. Skills had to be learned that were critical to gaining another’s trust before you offed them when they weren’t looking.
"In there somewhere was the birth of a violent act associated with a perceived threat, an unprovoked attack, which became the precursor to being able to rationalize a violent act; even when food was not needed to survive. These acts usually involved property, or status, or a mate."
Over time, the theory goes, some individuals began to distinguish the fine line between acts of survival and those of crime, while others didn’t. That’s why some researchers think crime, and the necessary rationalization behind its cruelty, is so deeply rooted. And why many theorize it has its origins in the primitive brain, very near the amygdala."
"And just who came up with this Evolutionary Criminal Theory?" asked Colleen, amazed at Jack’s scientific knowledge.
"Me, of course… it just seemed to be the most logical! And, who’s to say it isn’t true?
"Oh, I studied other theories," Jack continued on defensively, "but most of them incorporated a sexual rationale for criminal behavior. One suggested a band of roving males terrorized every female in sight and killed the rival males in order to spread their seed as widely as possible to insure the continuation of their line.
"Now if you think about it, that isn’t even a rationale for today’s evolved 'horn-dogs', much less a Neanderthal! There just isn’t any way I can be convinced that a Neanderthal would understand genetics, or for that matter, the significance of an act nine months prior to a birth. True, they had dominance issues, but in my opinion, the sexual overtones are just an attempt to keep students awake in class!
"Besides, haven’t we uncovered carved fertility statues from that time? How could a tribe who worshiped a fertility goddess put procreation together? And finally, have you ever been really, desperately hungry? I have, and sex is the last thing I’m looking for. I’m just saying…."
Before Colleen had a chance to refute Jack’s "theory", the pilot came on the speaker to announce they were making better time than expected and would be landing soon.
Colleen and Jack’s thoughts returned to their predicament, and they began to think of what tomorrow would bring. In their wildest dreams, neither of them could guess what awaited them.
Chapter 20 The Meat-Up
The crowd of inmates in the mess hall at Crimson Desert State Prison was thinning after the evening meal, and Big T made his way to the rear of the room, near the service entrance to the kitchen. With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t noticed, he winked at the guard and slipped through the door and moved down the long passage that led to Hank Caswell’s office. After a special knock, Big T entered with a swagger.
"Twice in a month? Ain’t you ‘fraid of wearing out your welcome with me?" Big T quipped, cracking his knuckles and flexing his broad chest muscles, as he stood large trying his best to fill the big chairless office.
"No more than you are with me" Hank said spinning around in his plush leather chair and clasping his fingers behind his head. "But if you ever want to go back to being one of the general population again, you just let me know. I’m sure there’s somebody out there who can appreciate the deal you’ve got…"
"No, no… I’m just spoutin’ off. Don’t mean nothing by it. We’re good."
"Not so good I’m afraid," Hank said as he took another spin in his chair. "Why is Kyle Preston still walking around with the living?"
Big T focused on the Berretta on the desk each time Hank’s spinning left his back turned. He wondered if Hank would be foolish enough to leave it loaded, or if Hank was really stupid enough to think he could overpower him if he ever decided to make his move.
"Cause he’s spending his days with the warden that’s why." Big T said in a deep voice. "And he’s spending his nights in the solitary wing. I can’t get to him. Nobody can."
"Well, you better come up with something fast, I’m running out of patience. Oh, and I’m in need of your friends on the outside again."
"Not sure I have any left." Big T drawled. "I hear one got pinched in Vegas pulling the job for you at the hotel on the strip, the other’s planning on leaving town."
"Now see," Hank said. "There’s a coincidence for you, the job I’ve got is in Chicago. A guy named Basra at a company called IFT." He’s the head of the outfit, so he should be no trouble to find. There’s fifty large for the man who handles him this week."
"Basra, huh?" Big T said, repeating the funny sounding name to better remember it. "The price is right, let me get on it. Anything else?"
"Yeah, don’t ever spout off with me again, you hear me? Not if the residents of 1428 Willingham Court, mean anything to you that is."
"Yes sir, you know I didn’t mean anything of it" Big T said, suddenly looking small.
_________________________
As darkness fell, a black sedan pulled away from Crimson Desert State Prison and headed toward the mountains. After driving for half an hour, Hank pulled off the road at an abandoned gas station and went around back. He used his shoulder for leverage and the door to the men’s room swung open; the lock busted long ago by countless patrons not in search of gas, but relief. The stench was overwhelming so Hank d
ecided to wait outside in the growing shadows.
Minutes later he heard a car approach slowly, and then pull off the road into the graveled parking lot. Hank could hear a car door slam and hurried footsteps getting louder as they made their way around back. When the man reached for the men’s room door, Hank raised his Beretta and fired twice, once between the shoulders and once in the head. Both bullets found their mark before he fell face first into the stinking room.
Hank took off a glove and checked the body for a pulse. Out of habit he wiped down the knob and walked back to his car, checking the highway in both directions for anyone who may be coming. As Hank started his car to leave, a figure rose from the seat in the car beside him and fired twice, shattering the driver’s window. Hank was hit once in the left shoulder and another shot grazed the back of his neck before he could return fire, ending the threat with a single shot.
His shoulder began to bleed badly but Hank managed to open his door and stumble to the car beside his. He jerked opened the driver’s door and pulled the assailant out onto the ground. A boy, no more than eighteen, lay motionless at Hank’s feet, bleeding onto the gravel from a hole in his forehead.
Hank turned him over and inspected the ugly wound covering most of the back of his head… a through and through.
Hank stepped over his body and reached into the car once more. He found the kid’s gun on the seat, a black 45 caliber Beretta! What luck he thought, as he thought about switching out the barrel with his own. With the kid’s windows down, his bullet must have passed through the car and into the parking lot or beyond, impossible to find in the growing darkness. When he finally realized switching barrels wouldn’t help his situation, he began to devise another scenario, one that didn’t include his being there at all.
He headed back around the building and pushed open the door to the men’s room. The stench hit him hard, making him struggle to repress retching. His shoulder was starting to freeze up. Thinking his mark must have fallen on his gun, Hank winced in pain as he rolled him over. No gun. Then he saw the large piss pool that had formed under him, soaking his jeans down to his knees. Hank was trying to put it together when he heard a car door close in the parking lot. His shoulder began to throb even with minor movement, forcing him to move slower than he wanted. He heard footsteps coming his way but before he could get to the shadows again, a large man rounded the corner holding a gun.
"Looks like you got yourself a real mess here, Mr. Caswell. Now, you probably have a lot on your mind, so I’m just going to ask you one question. Did you bring my money, or did you plan on joining your friends here?"
Hank had to think quickly. He made use of the darkness to hide his gun in the sleeve of his coat. The pain in his shoulder would not be ignored, and that caused him to try talking instead of implementing his original plan.
"You see what happened," Hank said nodding his head toward his bleeding shoulder, "Until just now I thought you had set me up. Do you blame me for not bringing the money with me?" Hank didn’t even convince himself with a story like that, but the pain in his shoulder was intense and clouding his ability to think. "What was to stop you from taking the money and killing me right here?" Hank said, immediately realizing he had made things much worse.
"You’ve got it all wrong," said the man holding the gun on Hank. "What’s to stop me from killing you, then go get the money? You know, come to think of it… I kinda like that idea better! Especially since it doesn’t look like you gave this guy much of a chance to decide either way. And if you’re telling me now that you thought he was me… then, well, I guess you just helped me decide, didn’t you?"
"Hold on now," Hank said, holding his good arm up in the air while grimacing with pain. "You’ll never find the money… is that what you want? To be an FBI’s 10 Most Wanted for nothing? You can’t kill 14 people and have the episode blow over in a few years you know. They’ll never stop hunting you. They'll tie you to the rogue drone before you get 100 miles! The money is your only way to hide in style."
At that, the man made a sudden move toward Hank, causing him to raise his good arm even higher in the air. His sleeve slipped down his arm exposing his gun, but Hank kept the man’s attention on his wounded shoulder by grimacing in pain and tilting his head to his wound.
At that moment another car pulled into the lot. In the instant it took the man to look toward the sound of the car door slamming, Hank lowered his arm and fired twice, hitting the man in the chest. He staggered backward a few steps, weakly raised his gun at Hank and then fell backwards, dead on the path.
Hank could hear footsteps running toward him and the squawk of a police radio. It wasn’t ideal but Hank was out of ideas; he decided his only option was to play dead. He dropped his gun and slumped to the ground as the pain in his shoulder flared and washed over him. Before anyone reached him, Hank Caswell sat back against the building and lost consciousness.
______________________
"Sheriff?"
"Yep?"
"You may want to check this out," said the deputy as he entered Dan Glover’s office.
"What is it Farley?"
"You know the multiple homicide out on Perimeter road last night?"
"Yeah?"
"One of the deceased has a wrist tattoo like the bolo we issued in the assault at the The Palazzio. And here's where it gets interesting. It turns out he's one of the drone pilots out at Randall."
"Say whaaat?" said Sheriff Glover looking over his readers as the report fell from his hands.
"Yes sir, looks like your witness and his crazy story could be right after all."
"About what? You mean that the Air Force was behind this? It'll take more than a flimsy tie-in like that to convince me my government's gone rogue son."
"Maybe so sheriff, but it does make you think, and there's enough conspiracy nuts around here to fan the flames for years. Oh, by the way, Phillip at the coroner's office called. Said he had something for you."
"Bring me the incident file on the shootings last night, would you please Farley?"
"Here you go," Farley said as he pulled the report from behind his back. "Thought you’d want to see it. Real interesting reading sir. Three dead, one survivor; the CEO of the state prison at Crimson Desert, a guy named Hank Caswell. He’s laying over in Sunrise ICU right now with two holes in him. He’s pretty foggy on what happened. Said he stopped to take a piss and was attacked. Doesn’t remember any specifics though."
"Didn’t LVPD take a perp into custody that was caught in the The Palazzio assault?"
"Yes sir."
"And didn't he have this same tat on his wrist?"
"Yes sir."
"Get on over there and get his story. I want to know if the assault at the hotel and a mass killing in the desert are related. Oh and don’t tell him his partner was killed last night, maybe you can get him to fill in some blanks for us. Let him think he's in custody and cooperating. And keep me posted Farley!"
Dan thumbed through the thin file as he reached for the phone. Too many answers that didn't fit the questions with this one, he thought.
"Clark County Morgue" an attractive female voice whispered into the phone. Every time she answered, Dan wondered if she thought she’d wake the dead if she spoke any louder.
"Hi Linda, Dan Glover, put me through to Phillip will you?"
"Yes Sheriff, right away."
"Clark County morgue, this’s Phillip"
"So you found something interesting, huh?"
"Sure did Sheriff, I ran a spectrograph on the residue and it’s the same shift as military grade explosive."
"The same shift?"
"Yeah," Phillip said apologetically. "Just some spectrographic humor."
"How about the bodies from last night? Have you had any luck with an ID?" Dan asked, letting his attempt at humor pass.
"Yeah, tragic really. A father and son from Fresno. His wife said they were on a getaway to Vegas for a few days to work out some old issues. She’s on her way out for t
he bodies now; I couldn’t talk her out of it.
"So whatcha think Phillip? Wrong place wrong time?"
"Looks like it. The father was shot twice in the back at close range, the son once in the forehead."
"Geez. What about the drone pilot?"
"Two in the chest with a 45… tight grouping, looks like a pro."
"So, Phillip, any guess as to the sequence?"
"Well sir, it only makes sense as an ambush. A meeting gone bad doesn’t jibe with the fact the bodies were so far apart. Robbery doesn’t make sense, nothing of any value was at the scene. It looks like the kid shot Mr. Caswell twice, and he returned fire, killing the kid, and then Mr. Caswell went in search of the father. Or Mr. Caswell was the aggressor… the only thing I know for sure is it wasn’t the pilot. He was late to this party."
The Premise Page 23
