Dead on Arrival

by R. J. Patterson

  “My fingerprints were on it because I had to move it to get to a control panel that I thought I needed access to. Why? Is the money missing?”

  “All of it, actually,” Kelly said.

  “Well, you might want to look into that driver. He seemed kind of shady to me.”

  “He’s next on our list,” Cal said.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Kelly said, standing abruptly. “I need to check on something in the car.”

  Cal was caught off guard by the sudden move, but he trusted his wife and whatever she was up to.

  * * *

  KELLY EXITED THE TRAILER and strolled over to White Bull’s wife, who was in the process of feeding Thor and Zeus.

  “Beautiful view you’ve got out here,” Kelly said.

  The woman looked up and smiled. She wiped her hands off on her jeans before offering her hand.

  “I’m Charlotte,” she said.

  “Nadia,” Kelly said. “Those are some gorgeous German Shepherds you have there, too.”

  “Thanks,” Charlotte said, turning her gaze back toward the animals now chowing down on their food. “They are a playful bunch, but we sure do enjoy them.”

  “You do have plenty of land for them to roam around on. And your husband works all the way in Bismarck. That’s about an hour and a half drive, isn’t it?”

  “Something like that. I hardly ever make it any more. We got a new grocery store in White Shields a couple years ago, and that changed our lives.”

  “But why live here and work that far away?”

  “The tribe gave us this land for one thing. Plus, the wages are much better for Phil’s skillset in Bismarck.”

  “Well, that makes sense.”

  “Yeah, well they’re not that much better. We still have a water heater on the fritz and a dryer that only works half the time.”

  Kelly nodded knowingly. “Appliances breaking have to be one of the worst things. You never plan for it, meaning you never have the money for it.”

  “You got that right. But Phil always manages to find money for his new toys.”

  Charlotte nodded in the direction of the sparkling white Chevrolet Silverado 1500.

  “Just got it on Friday,” she said. “I asked him several times about it, and he said he had been squirreling away some money and was able to get it by trading in his old truck. But to be honest, I don’t know how he even got two nickels for that piece of junk he had before.”

  Before the conversation went any further, Kelly turned toward the trailer when she heard the front door slam shut. Cal was walking out with White Bull, who was smiling and laughing.

  “I guess it’s time to hit the road,” Kelly said. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you.”

  “Likewise,” Charlotte said.

  Kelly strode toward Cal and joined him as the two men wound down their conversation.

  “Did we get everything we needed to compile our report?” Kelly asked Cal.

  He nodded. “Mr. White Bull was a great help to us.”

  “Well, I like his shiny new truck,” Kelly said, winking at Cal.

  He picked up on the signal right away.

  “That’s quite a truck right there,” Cal said. “How did you manage to swing that?”

  “I’ve been saving for a while for that beauty,” White Bull said. “Traded in my old vehicle and—boom! I get to drive this peach of an automobile in to work every day.”

  “Wow,” Cal said, circling the truck and running his hand along the smooth contours. “What did you drive before this?”

  “I drove a Chevy Blazer.”

  Cal cocked his head to one side, his eyes widening. “I didn’t think they even made those any more.”

  “They don’t,” Charlotte said as she joined the trio. “His was a ’97. A beat up piece of junk.”

  “Well, I didn’t get much for the old girl, but I had plenty saved up for this new gem,” White Bull said, stroking the smooth paint on the outside.

  “But he can’t buy me a new dryer or get a new water heater. It’s always about his stupid truck.”

  Cal eyed White Bull cautiously again. “Where exactly did you say the money came from again to buy that truck?

  “I saved up for it,” White Bull said as a scowl spread across his face.

  “What’d you do to save up for it? Do you have a home car repair shop here?” Cal asked.

  “Look, Mr. Big City Lawyer, I think it’s time you and your woman friend hit the road,” White Bull said. “I’ve answered all your questions that needed answering.”

  Cal narrowed his eyes. “No, you haven’t answered all my questions, namely where did you get the money to buy that truck?”

  “That’s none of your business,” White Bull said. “Now, I’m not going to ask you again to leave.”

  Cal didn’t move. “I’m just wondering who I should call first from my contacts list—a friend at the IRS to investigate where you’re getting your cash from or my buddy at the FBI to look into your activities here on the reservation.”

  White Bull chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before responding.

  “I swear, I didn’t steal the money,” he said.

  “Then where did it come from?” Cal asked.

  White Bull sighed. “Some guy approached me at the repair shop and asked me to make sure a certain RV remained there for several days. He said all I had to do was tell them the part wouldn’t be in for a few days. I balked at first, but then he told me he’d give me sixty thousand dollars. That’s more than I make in a year, so I agreed to do it. He handed me a brown paper bag with thirty thousand in it on the spot and told me he’d be watching my every move.”

  “Did he say how?” Cal asked.

  “No, but I knew he was because after I told the driver that we couldn’t get the part in for a few days, I had thirty thousand sitting on the passenger seat of my truck when I went to drive home that afternoon.”

  “And you spent it on a truck instead of a water heater and a new dryer?” Charlotte asked in disgust.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte. You know how unreliable that truck is when I have to drive that far back and forth to Bismarck every day,” White Bull said.

  “You’re a mechanic, for goodness sake,” Charlotte said. “You can keep your old jalopy running. Or maybe you could’ve bought a nice used truck and got me some things too, you selfish fool.”

  Charlotte stormed back toward the house.

  “One more question,” Cal said. “Can you describe the man who approached you?”

  White Bull nodded. “I’ll never forget the face of the man who gave me sixty thousand dollars for practically nothing.”

  CHAPTER 10

  ON THE DRIVE BACK to Bismarck, Cal called Buckman to let him know about the progress of the investigation. Cal and Kelly had established that someone wanted Chase Dollinger on that bus so they could kill him. But the who element of the story—the part that mattered most to readers—was still missing.

  “Let me get this straight,” Buckman began. “You’ve got a conflicting examination by an independent coroner that says Dollinger didn’t die the way the New York coroner reported, and you’ve got a Native American repairman saying he got paid sixty grand to lie to the RV driver about when a part would be in and all they needed was a sparkplug?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound like we have that much to go on, but surely you can see that there are some nefarious agents involved here.”

  “Maybe,” Buckman said. “You have to corroborate more of these stories. For example, how do you know that the repairman—what’s his name—?”

  “Phil White Bull.”

  “Ok, White Bull. How do you know White Bull wasn’t lying just to keep you from following through on your threat? Maybe he’s running drugs and he made up that story on the spot to keep his wife in the dark about what he’s really doing.”

  “Maybe, but his story matches up with what the people at Hardman’s RV World told me regardin
g the misdiagnosis of Dollinger’s vehicle. He even gave me a description of the guy.”

  “Hey, Frank,” Kelly said. “I’ve been listening in here on speaker phone. And I have to tell you that White Bull’s story seems legit. He didn’t strike me as someone slick enough to make up a story like that on the spot.”

  “So, maybe you are on to something,” Buckman said. “But I need you back here as soon as possible, Cal. The Sounders have a playoff game looming, and I might need some help with the Seahawks and Huskies. You can keep working on this, but I think you might need to consider getting the law involved based on what you know.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea at this point,” Cal said. “So far, it seems to me that some very powerful people might possibly be involved in what’s going on. You should’ve seen that coroner’s face. He looked truly terrified, like something might happen to him.”

  “I’ll go with your recommendation for now, but I don’t want this to drag on,” Buckman said. “If these people are as dangerous as you claim they are, the longer we go without getting this out in the public, the greater risk you could be putting yourself in.”

  “I understand,” Cal said. “I’ll be discreet.”

  “All right. Looking forward to seeing you back here in Seattle.”

  Cal hung up and looked at Kelly.

  She furrowed her brow. “So, what’s the next move?”

  “I think we need to track down Chase’s bus driver.”

  “What do you think he’s going to tell us? He’s got his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road the whole time.”

  Cal shrugged. “He might have seen something, possibly while they stopped at one of the terminals along the route. You never know.”

  “I guess it can’t hurt.”

  “Yeah, and we’ve got plenty of time to kill as we drive back to our hotel.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”

  Kelly found the number for Greyhound’s media relations and placed a call. After introducing herself as part of a reporting team working on a story about Chase Dollinger, she asked the woman if Greyhound would release the name of the driver.

  “We’re not really at liberty to do that,” the woman replied. “However, there was an article in The New York Times about Dollinger’s death that interviewed the driver. That’s about as good as I can do.”

  “That should be more than enough,” Kelly said.

  She pulled out her phone and found the article. As she scanned it, she searched for any reference to the bus driver.

  “Well, would you look at that,” she said.

  “What is it?” Cal asked, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Kelly and the road.

  “Seattle-based driver Ray Jackson claimed he was unaware of anyone having any health-related issues until the bus reached the station in New York.”

  “He’s from Seattle?” Cal asked. “That is interesting. I wonder how long he’d been driving that night.”

  “Why don’t you look him up on social media?” Cal suggested.

  “Good idea,” Kelly said. “Wish me luck.”

  In less than five minutes, Kelly found his profile on Facebook.

  “That’s not even close to what I was imagining for a Greyhound bus driver.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s a ripped African American, or at least he appears to be in this picture,” she said as she turned the screen toward Cal.

  “I’m driving, honey. Describe him to me.”

  “Bulging biceps, barrel chested, well-defined lines on his goatee.”

  Cal shook his head. “Sounds like you’ve got the hots for him.”

  “I’m just describing him. When we stop and you get a chance to look at him, I want you to tell me anything I just said that wasn’t factual.”

  “All right, whatever,” Cal said. “So, he spends all his off days in the gym.”

  Kelly continued scrolling through Jackson’s feed and then stopped. “Well, this is really interesting.”

  “What now?”

  “I just found a picture of him wearing a Yankees cap.”

  Cal laughed. “Oh, come on. You can’t really think there’s something to that. Yankees fans are everywhere—New York transplants, bandwagon fans, people who still remember when that team used to be in the playoff hunt every year.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but in this instance, I think it’d be foolish to write it off.”

  “Are you suggesting that the Yankees might be behind Dollinger’s death?”

  She shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  Cal shook his head. “No way. I’m not buying it.”

  “Don’t be so sure. We’ve seen crazier things over the years, haven’t we? Keep an open mind.”

  “I’m trying, but there are some more plausible theories I want to explore first, starting with that bus driver—but not because he’s a Yankees fan.”

  CHAPTER 11

  BY THE TIME Cal and Kelly landed in Seattle the next afternoon, Cal already had set up a meeting with Ray Jackson. He returned from a coast-to-coast trip the morning before and had a few days off before returning to work. After rejecting Cal’s invitation to coffee, Jackson suggested they meet at Seattle Boxing Gym downtown on the corner of Broadway and Pike streets.

  “Don’t get in the ring with Jackson, no matter what you do,” she teased Cal as they parted ways. “I’ve seen him in a muscle shirt.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Cal asked, flexing his right bicep. “These guns aren’t anything to scoff at.”

  “No, but they’re nothing in comparison to Jackson’s. I gotta go get our luggage and then pick up Maddie. I can’t wait to see her. Love you, honey.”

  “Just drop an insult and run,” Cal said, trying to suppress a smile. “I’ll see you at home tonight for dinner. Maybe Maddie will be impressed with these.”

  He flexed again, but Kelly waved dismissively.

  * * *

  CAL PRESSED THE BUZZER outside the gym’s door, alerting one of the staff members. A few seconds later, a hulking man who was about five feet six gestured for Cal to come inside.

  “Do you have an appointment with someone?” the man asked.

  “Ray Jackson.”

  “Jax is training now?” the man asked as he looked Cal up and down. “He’s definitely going to have his work cut out with you.”

  Cal bit his lip and nodded. “We’re just here to talk, and this is where he suggested that we meet.”

  The man smiled. “You sure you don’t want to get in the ring and go a few rounds? I’ve got a few women here who wouldn’t mind wailing on you for a minute or two.”

  “I appreciate the generous offer,” Cal said. “And while it sounds enticing, I’m going to take a hard pass on that. I’m not really much of a fighter.”

  The man adjusted the white tape on his wrists. “You might not think you are, but everyone is a fighter inside. I bet you could benefit from a few moves. Before you leave, I’ll give you a quick free lesson. Deal?”

  Cal shrugged. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

  “That’s my man. My name is Vincent, but you can call me Vinnie like everyone else, because nobody honors my request to be called by my given name.”

  “Not even if you threaten to punch them in the face?”

  Vinnie laughed. “Around here, I’m still a minnow in a pool of sharks. You’ll see that soon enough. Now, let me help you find Ray.”

  Vinnie wove through the gym packed with fighters training at various stations. Some people lifted weights, while others shadow boxed or punched bags steadied by coaches barking commands. Cal had been behind the scenes of many popular U.S. sports, but the world of boxing had always been a mystery, one he didn’t care to see up close due to the raw violence. Yet, here he was.

  “There he is,” Vinnie said, pointing to Ray. “Hey, Jax. You have a visitor.”

  The summons by Vinnie didn’t stop Jackson from his jump rope session. He counted of
f under his breath as he continued on for a half a minute before stopping.

  Jackson cautiously offered his hand before firmly gripping Cal’s as the two exchanged pleasantries.

  “Nice to meet you, Ray,” Cal said.

  “Likewise,” Jackson said. “And you can just call me Jax like everyone else does.”

  “So, Jax, how long have you been boxing?” Cal asked.

  Jackson gestured for Cal to have a seat on one of the two nearby metal folding chairs.

  “As long as I can remember,” Jackson said. “I grew up in Harlem, and learning how to defend yourself was a pre-requisite.”

  “And now you’re in Seattle.”

  Jackson smiled. “Yeah, I followed a girl out here. It didn’t work out, but then I fell in love with Seattle. So, I assume you didn’t come here to talk about my past.”

  “No, I wanted to ask you some questions about the leg you drove last week that ended in New York with Chase Dollinger.”

  Jackson shook his head. “That was just so sad. I’m a big baseball fan, and I loved watching him pitch. He had so much potential.”

  “So, did the police question you about that night?”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “I’ve been driving when a fight broke out before—several times, actually—and that was the shortest interview I’d ever been a part of.”

  “Can you tell me what you remember?”

  “Honestly, it wasn’t a very memorable trip, which is the kind I like. The traffic wasn’t bad, the passengers were compliant, nobody was too loud—it was perfect.”

  “When did you start driving that route?”

  “I picked it up in Pittsburgh. We’re only allowed to be on the road for so many hours per day, so I was plodding across the country at about twelve hours at a time. It usually takes four to five days depending on how I’m routed.”

  “So, you started the morning in Pittsburgh. Do you recall any suspicious characters on board?”

  “Have you ever taken a Greyhound across the country, Mr. Murphy?”

  Cal shook his head.

  “Well, there are always plenty of shady looking characters. It’s the ones who look put together that stand out. That’s how I recognized Chase Dollinger. He didn’t look like he belonged there. He looked rather stable—and that’s when I started racking my brain, trying to remember where I’d seen him.”