by Tripp Ellis
It took a bit of force, but the padlock sheared free. I removed the linkage and carefully lifted the door, making sure it wasn’t booby-trapped.
I didn’t see a tripwire attached to the door, but my eyes widened with horror when I looked inside the box truck.
I didn't know how much time we had until detonation. I called Daniels and updated him on the situation.
The truck was filled with blue barrels with wiring that snaked around them from barrel to barrel. Sitting on top of it all was a small lead cylinder.
I climbed into the vehicle and began examining the construction of the bomb. I figured it was a pretty standard ammonium nitrate and fuel oil concoction. C-4 plastic explosive was used as the primary detonation charge, which would then detonate the more stable ANFO. It was all tied to a battery and a cell phone. A simple phone call would trip the phone’s buzzer, which was powerful enough to trip a relay that would allow the battery to charge the blasting caps.
A phone call.
From anywhere in the world, at any time.
There was no timer.
No countdown.
It was both good and bad. I figured if someone was watching, they'd be inclined to detonate the device sooner rather than later. In the back of my mind, I hoped that Fink had planned on making the call himself.
That was wishful thinking.
I continued to study the device, looking for backup battery sources or additional cell phones. Sometimes bomb-makers will create decoys and redundant systems. Sometimes they won't.
I had disarmed a number of IEDs in my day, and it was always a nerve-racking experience. Time wasn't our friend in this scenario, and waiting for the EOD team wasn’t an option.
Daniels had notified the other deputies, and they began evacuating the hotel, reassuring the guests this was just a precaution.
One discharge of static electricity could spell doom and trigger the device.
I touched the metal wall of the box truck, dissipating any charge that might have built up on my fingers. I held my breath and fumbled with the wiring, my heart pounding.
It was easy to disconnect the main battery. There wasn’t any complicated wiring. When I did, the device didn't explode.
I breathed a sigh of relief and removed the blasting caps from the C4. Without the primary charges, the ANFO couldn’t explode.
I climbed out of the vehicle, and the EOD team arrived shortly thereafter. Sergeant Hartman suited up in protective gear that made him look like an alien. He could barely climb into the back of the truck with the weight of the blast suit.
It didn't take Hartman long to determine that the device was rendered safe. He climbed out of the truck and pulled off the helmet—his face already dripping with sweat. “Good job, Wild. What about that lead container?"
"That's what worries me."
It wasn't long before Feds in hazmat suits with Geiger counters arrived.
The clickity-clack of the device increased when a man in a yellow bio- suit evaluated me. He didn't say a word, then climbed into the back of the truck, and the Geiger counter went a little more crazy when he scanned the lead cylinder.
After noodling around in the box truck for a minute, he hopped out and approached me. “We’re definitely dealing with radioactive material.”
“What about our exposure?” Hartman asked with a panic look on his face, sweat misting his brow.
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"I don't want to grow a third arm or have my balls shrivel up,” Hartman said.
The guy in the hazmat suit looked at him flatly. “You have balls?”
Hartman scowled at him.
"Relax. The container is shielded. It's emitting about a day’s worth of background radiation. Nothing to worry about. Now, if you open the container, you'll be in a world of hurt."
We let the Feds clean up the mess. It was their problem to dismantle and dispose of the explosives. And they were equipped to handle the radioactive material. There would be a full investigation into its origin.
Slowly the guests began filtering back into the hotel now that the threat had been managed.
I drove JD to the hospital, where they did an X-ray and an MRI on his ankle. He sprained it, and the doctor prescribed anti-inflammatories, Tylenol for pain, and put him in a boot for a few weeks.
We headed to the station, filled out after-action reports, then I dropped JD off at his house. I pulled his Porsche up the circular drive to the entrance. He used his new crutches to hobble inside, and I helped him get situated.
"You need anything before I go?” I asked.
"I'm good. I think I’m gonna dial up a few honeys and have them nurse me back to health."
I chuckled. I had no doubt JD would be back in action in no time. "Just don't sprain anything else,” I said before leaving.
I left his car in the driveway and caught a rideshare back to the marina.
The animals were with Teagan, and I had the evening to myself. I took a hot shower, poured myself a drink, and lounged around watching television, feeling mighty accomplished. There was one less terrorist in the world.
I still had enemies around the globe. There were plenty of angry cartel members and perps that I had put away. But I figured I’d get a pretty sound sleep tonight. There was no immediate threat.
I happened to catch an episode of celebrity homes. I was about to change the channel when I realized they would be featuring Nolan Orton’s mansion in Stingray Bay. The episode had been filmed when he first moved to the island and transferred headquarters. At the time, there had been lots of talk about the island becoming the next Silicon Valley.
Nobody really wanted the influx. The locals liked the island just the way it was. We didn't want more traffic, more high-rises, and more crime—all the things that go along with a growing city.
The camera moved through the house, gliding effortlessly, showcasing the spacious design, the blending of the interior and exterior spaces, the fine furniture, the luxurious appointments. It showed the masses a lifestyle most would never have.
There were brief appearances by Nolan and Eva, discussing some of the personal touches they made to the house. With the recent news of her death, the previously aired episode became timely again.
The camera showed views of the bathrooms and the master bedroom. That's when I noticed something pertinent to the case.
At the foot of the bed was the brown steamer trunk. I was sure it was the same one Eva had been discovered in. The same one that Orton denied owning.
It was just the thing I needed to tie him to the case.
I called Sheriff Daniels right away. “We need a warrant to arrest Nolan Orton. I caught his ass in a lie.”
The sheriff seemed intrigued.
I called JD. Crutches or no crutches, he wasn't about to miss this. I called for a rideshare to JD’s, then drove the Porsche to the station. I made a sworn affidavit, and Daniels took it to the judge.
Surprisingly, Echols approved the warrant.
We put a tactical team together that included Mendoza, Robinson, Faulkner, and Erickson, and headed to Stingray Bay.
Several county vehicles pulled to the curb in the posh neighborhood. We all hopped out and advanced toward the home.
JD hobbled to the walkway.
I rang the bell at the gate, and Nolan answered a few moments later. “I’ve got nothing to say to you without the advice of counsel, Deputy. I thought I made that abundantly clear."
"We have a warrant for your arrest. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It's up to you."
Nolan didn’t respond right away.
57
"I didn't kill my wife,” Nolan said.
He was silent for a long moment.
“Do I have to break down the gate?”
There was no response.
Just as Erickson and Faulkner were about to hammer it with a battering ram, the gate buzzed open, and we flooded into the courtyard.
Nolan opened the door and surrendered himself.
JD stood on the sidewalk, leaning on his crutches, watching with glee.
Nolan was taken to the station, processed, printed, and stuffed into an interrogation room. We let him stew for an hour, then decided to harass him. I pulled open the door, and JD hobbled in. I followed after him, and we took a seat across the table from Nolan.
Nolan looked less than thrilled about his current situation.
"Now is your chance to start talking," I said. "You lied to me about the steamer trunk. What else did you lie to me about?"
Nolan was stoic for a long moment. He sat there, contemplating his fate, trying to figure a way out of this. I figured he was too smart to talk to us. But sometimes arrogance takes over, and suspects think they can talk their way out of anything.
"I didn't kill my wife,” Nolan said. “It was an accident."
"I'm listening."
“Things were tense between Eva and me, as you can imagine. We were fighting a lot. That day, we got into it pretty heavily. We were in the master bathroom, and she flew into a rage. She started punching me and pounding my chest. I pushed her away from me. I had no choice. She was physically attacking me.”
He was trying to make himself sound like the victim, and I wasn't buying it.
“She fell back and hit her head on the corner of the counter," he continued. "It knocked her unconscious. My God, the blood. The blood was everywhere, oozing from her scalp." He paused, then stammered. "I thought she was dead. You have to believe me. She looked dead." His wide eyes pleaded for understanding.
"Did you check for vitals?"
He shook his head. "I called for Jason. He joined me in the bathroom. He knelt down beside Eva, felt for a pulse, and concluded that she was not alive.”
I exchanged a wary glance with JD.
"So, the two of you panicked and conspired to dispose of the body,” I said.
"Jason said he would take care of it. With everything that happened recently, and Eva wanting a divorce, I didn't think anybody would believe my story." His eyes begged for sympathy. "I thought she was dead. It was Jason's idea. He concocted the whole story. I went along with it. I figured what was the harm? Nothing I did was going to bring her back. We emptied the steamer trunk, carried it to the bathroom, then loaded her body inside. We sealed it up, and Jason thought it was best if I left with the two other bodyguards. That would give me plausible deniability. I could say I wasn't around. What happened after that, I don't know for sure. Jason said he loaded her into his truck, took her to his boat, then dumped her at sea.”
"While she was still alive," I added.
"I didn't know that at the time. Had I known, I would have called 911, and maybe we could have saved her. I feel terrible about that."
"Well, you’ll have a long time to think about it."
"But I didn't kill her."
"I guess it's up to a jury now, isn't it?"
"Can't you give me some type of a deal? All I did was help dispose of the body."
"Is that all?"
I didn’t know how much, if any, of his story was true. And it really didn't matter. He admitted to several felonies, and he was going away for a long time.
We left the interrogation room, and I figured Nolan Orton would thoroughly enjoy his first night in jail. It would be a far cry from the accommodations he was used to.
We filled out after-action reports, then called it a night. I dropped JD off at home. He told me to keep the Porsche overnight. At this point, he wasn’t worried about me wrecking it. How much more damage could I do to it? I drove back to the marina, ambled down the dock to the Avventura, and settled in for the evening.
The next day, we decided to investigate Sophia’s claim.
1127 Grayling Lane was in an older neighborhood. The home that previously existed on the site had been demolished, and the lot had sat empty for almost a year until the new construction began last month. Nestled between lush foliage and tall palm trees was a newly poured foundation slab.
Slowly but surely, the old homes in the neighborhood were getting replaced with new builds.
I parked the Porsche at the curb, and we ambled up the walkway, JD still hobbling along on crutches.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” JD asked.
I nodded.
I called Daniels, and he met us on site with cadaver dogs. The dogs sniffed the entire area and never indicated once.
“Let’s grab the ground-penetrating radar,” I said.
JD had an assortment of treasure hunting toys. The device sent electromagnetic waves through the ground and could detect anomalies in the soil up to 50 feet, depending on the composition. Sand, granite, and concrete didn’t absorb the frequencies like clay and shale did. Sometimes you’d be lucky to see a foot below the surface in high absorption areas.
The device had a sophisticated algorithm to interpret the data and form a 3D image. It was a bulky, heavy piece of equipment that resembled a high-tech lawnmower with display screens.
"Do you really want to push the issue?" JD muttered. "I mean, what's the point?”
"I'd like to know if Sophia was telling the truth."
“What does it matter now?”
“If there’s a body here, we need to find it.”
In JD’s current condition, he wouldn’t be much help loading it in. I recruited Mendoza, and we headed to JD's house, grabbed the ground-penetrating radar from the garage, and loaded it into the back of the Wild Fury van.
I drove it back to Grayling, and we unloaded the device and rolled it to the foundation. Inch by inch, I covered every square foot, looking for anomalies under the surface. It was hard to determine what exactly was underneath the slab. When soil has been dug up, it packs in loosely afterward and has a different density compared with undisturbed soil. Since the whole area had been disrupted during construction, it was a little more difficult to determine what exactly was in the ground under the slab. But there was something down there about the right size and shape.
We all huddled around the display screen, trying to make heads or tails out of the image.
Daniels frowned. He pulled me aside and muttered, “And you have good intel that there's a body down there?"
I nodded.
"I don't want to dig up the slab only to find the remains of a dead dog or nothing at all."
"I think we’re going to find the remains of Holden Cauley."
“And your friend confessed to the murder and gave you the location of the body?”
“Something like that.”
“And you just let her walk away?"
"It was a complicated situation.” Then I added, innocently, “And Cauley was a bad man."
Daniels glared at me for a moment. He shouted to the other deputies, "Okay. Let's dig this up."
Daniels coordinated a crew to start breaking up the concrete. Just as they were about to demo the pristine foundation, the property owner showed up.
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"What the hell is going on here?" the landowner shouted with a distressed face.
“We’re conducting an investigation," Daniels said.
"Not on my property, you're not."
"We have reason to believe there may be human remains on the premises."
The man's face tensed. "Do you have a warrant?"
Daniels didn't respond.
"If you don't have a warrant, I want you to get off my property, now!”
“And your name is?"
"I'm the landowner and the developer."
"Your name, sir?"
He huffed. "I don't have to tell you anything. You're on private property, and I would like you to leave."
"You're not the subject of the investigation," Daniels said, trying to calm the man.
"I don't care. I have a prospective buyer coming to look at the lot thi
s afternoon. I don't want you anywhere around here. And I certainly don’t want you demolishing my foundation. It cost a lot of money to put down.” He leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. “Do you know how hard it is to sell a property where someone's been killed?"
"We don't believe the victim was killed at this location."
"I don't care. I want you all out of here. Now!”
Daniels stared the man down for a moment, then sighed. "Alright, boys. Let's wrap this up."
The sheriff turned his attention back to the real estate developer and forced a smile. "I apologize for any inconvenience."
He didn’t mean it.
The man glared at us as we left the property.
We headed back to the station, and Daniels attempted to get a warrant, but Judge Echols wouldn't sign off on it. He said that since the cadaver dogs didn't indicate, there was no compelling evidence to continue the search, despite my sworn affidavit and the inconclusive radar image.
I figured I would never know if Sophia was telling the truth. But Holden Cauley never did take another contract for murder.
Maybe he retired.
If he was underneath that slab, it wasn’t a bad thing. He was a killer, no doubt about it. But I felt sorry for the people who bought the home.
After a few weeks, JD ditched the crutches and was getting along pretty well with the boot. His injury had put our treasure hunting on hold. He wasn't in any condition to fin around at the bottom of the ocean with a bum ankle. We took the opportunity to hang out, drink beer, and fish.
Wild Fury played their show, and Crash pulled himself together. He seemed to be staying away from the hard stuff and kept his drinking in moderation. The concert was a crowd-pleaser, despite JD’s lack of mobility. Of course, Jack used his injury to solicit as much sympathy as he could from the opposite sex. He had no shortage of beauties willing to nurse him back to health.
It was a good few weeks. Ultra Mega 2 was maintaining its reign at #1 atop the box office. Jack’s daughter, Scarlett, had become a bonafide international celebrity overnight. She was in for a wild ride. I hoped she could handle it.
