Lieutenant Kane: Dedicated to Death 01-The First Shot

by EH Reinhard

  “Why would you go after a drug-dealing gangbanger’s mother?” Hank asked. “Especially the mother of someone like Treadwell? He’s been around long enough to where you think people wouldn’t try to pull something like that on the guy. Plus, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that he’s probably not the kind of guy that you’d want after you.”

  “Well,” I said. I rearranged myself in the driver’s seat. “You find a criminal with money. Treadwell had money. You find a criminal because they aren’t going to go to the cops under any circumstances. Then you kill said criminal because you don’t want them finding out who you are after you just took a bunch of ransom money from them and abducted their mother.”

  “But why kill the women?” Hank asked. “And why take Woodward’s mother? He wasn’t anyone special.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw a marked TPD cruiser pulling to the curb. Another maroon-colored sedan pulled in behind it. “Looks like our warrant and Rick are here,” I said.

  We stepped from the car and walked to the base of the driveway. The driver’s door on the patrol car opened, and Officer Hart got out. Hart was a thirty-year veteran of the force, or so he told everyone every chance he got—he usually added the fact that it was all out on patrol because that was where he could make a difference. Hart was about my size, a bit over six foot and around two twenty-five, but had a good twenty years on me, which put him in his late fifties. I had to give the guy credit, he was in good shape for his age. We often found ourselves in the station’s gym, working out at the same time.

  “Gentlemen,” Hart said, walking up. He pulled a pair of dark plastic sunglasses from the breast pocket of his short-sleeved black TPD uniform and put them over his eyes. “Here’s that warrant.”

  I took it from Hart, thanked him for bringing it, and looked over at Rick pulling a gray plastic kit from the trunk of his sedan.

  “Are you hanging out, Hart?” Hank asked.

  “Yup.” Hart stepped from the brick roadway up onto the sidewalk. “I saw Detective Jones just as I was heading over. It sounded like he was coming to lend a hand as well.”

  “Good,” I said.

  I saw Rick heading our way. He stepped to our group. “So this is where she came from?” he asked.

  “Looks like it. We have a punched-out and boarded-over window on the back door.”

  “We’ll probably want to leave that as is for right now until I can pull some prints from around it. Did you guys just want to go in through the front?” Rick nodded toward the home’s front door under the porch.

  “Let’s go around back and go through the door in the lanai or something. This isn’t really the neighborhood to be booting in front doors,” I said.

  We walked past the cruiser Hank and I had arrived in and down the driveway toward the back. I showed Rick the back door with the damaged window. “Here is where I guess our original entry was when the woman was taken. About the only thing that I saw that was off.”

  “Got it,” Rick said. He set his kit down on the concrete and popped open the top. “Gloves?” he asked.

  “If you have a few pairs to spare,” I said.

  Rick dug into his kit and came back with a box of latex gloves. Hart took a set, then Hank, and then I did. I pulled the gloves over my hands.

  “Looks like we have some doors tucked back into the lanai there,” Hart said.

  I looked over at him near the screen door that led to the pool area. He pointed in the direction of the doors as he spoke. Hank and I walked over and through the unlocked screen door behind Hart.

  Ahead and to our left was a pair of red-framed glass-paned patio doors. We walked to them, and I stared into the home. I saw glossy wood floors spanning a hallway directly ahead. A stairwell went up to the left of the hall. The kitchen and dining area were farther left. To the right was the home’s living room.

  “What do you have on your belt, Hart?” I asked.

  “LED flashlight with a tactical end. Cuffs. Glock 22. A couple extra magazines…”

  I glanced at his belt and cut him off. “Flashlight,” I said.

  Hart pulled it and handed it over. I pulled my suit jacket back over my fist gripping the flashlight and put the end through the glass nearest the door handle. With a quick run of the flashlight around the frame to get rid of loose shards of glass, I put my hand through and turned the door lock.

  I shook the chips of glass from the sleeve of my jacket and handed Hart his flashlight back. “Thanks.”

  We walked into the living room. The kitchen, dining area, and door near Rick stood off to our left. I looked in the living room, searching for anything that looked off. A big couch took up the left wall. A large fireplace with a mantel above it took up most of the back wall of the room. Bookcases, mostly filled, sat to the left and right of the fireplace. The right wall, with a window facing out into the pool area we’d just entered from, held a pair of large lounge chairs with ottomans. A small table with a stack of books separated the two chairs. The room held nothing of interest. I made a left for the dining and kitchen area—and the door that we had forced entry on.

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Hart asked.

  “Any signs of a struggle that we can investigate further,” I said. “Hell, anything that looks like it may be of interest. Whoever boarded over the window was obviously here after Ida Bishop was taken. My guess would be Charles Treadwell, but have a look around for anything that belongs to anyone other than Treadwell or his mother. Who knows, maybe someone else is living here as well, and we can have a talk with them.”

  I walked to the dining room table and noticed a stack of mail. I fanned the letters out and had a look at the addressees on each envelope. They were all for Ida Bishop, no one else. I left the kitchen area and went in search of the bedrooms. With Ida found in her pajamas, it was safe to assume that whatever happened in the home had occurred there if the entry of the abductor or abductors had gone unnoticed. I walked into the hall and toward the front of the house and front door. After passing a bathroom and storage area under the stairwell leading up, I found that the hall opened to my left and right about ten feet from the front door. To my left and right were almost identical wide-open rooms. Both had small sitting areas with chairs and more bookcases—an odd layout. I’d imagined that one of the rooms might have been closed off as a small bedroom prior to a remodel. I went back the way that I came, rounded the corner for the stairwell, and was about to head up to the second level. Officer Hart stood at the landing where the stairwell turned ninety degrees and continued up.

  “Watch your step, Lieutenant,” Hart said. “Looks like we have a drop of blood on the third step. We have another on the landing here. The sergeant spotted them on our way up.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  I started up the steps, stopping and crouching briefly to get a look at both droplets on the stairs. Rick would have to test both drips, but from my experience, I had no doubt they were in fact blood. I looked down after the landing and ascended to the second floor of the home—I didn’t see any more blood. Officer Hart made a left at the top of the stairs.

  “What’s to the right?” I asked.

  Hart spoke over his shoulder. “Spare bedroom. It looked untouched. The master is at the end of the hall this way. A bit of disarray and appears to be where the blood starts. Another drip here,” he said, pointing down.

  I minded the drip on the hardwood and walked the hall, following Officer Hart. Over Hart’s shoulder, I could see Hank standing in a bedroom at the end of the hall. I glanced into a bathroom on my left as I passed it and what I figured to be a hall closet beside it. I paused at a doorway to my right and looked in. A sewing machine and miscellaneous fabric swatches covered a large table in the center of the room. I continued on and entered the bedroom at the end of the hall. Hank stood next to a king-sized bed that sat in the far right corner. Next to the bed were a nightstand with the single drawer open and a lamp lying on the
floor beside it. I looked left at a dresser with some more open drawers—a jewelry box that looked as if it had been rummaged through sat on top. Farther left of the dresser was a short hall that I saw led to the master bathroom as I walked toward Hank.

  Hank pointed down near the edge of the bed, just a few inches from the lamp on the floor, at a three-inch puddle of blood with a few stray drops beside it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  David sat on the black vinyl recliner, staring over at the coffee table and running through everything in his head once more. He scratched at his couple-of-inches-long golden-colored beard. “Is the police scanner in there?” he asked.

  “It’s in the bag. We have everything,” Chris said. He leaned forward on the couch and ran his hand through the big black canvas duffel bag. “Pistol and rifle for each of us. A couple of extra magazines for each. Our gloves, our masks, our radios. We’re good.”

  Brad sat next to Chris on the couch. Brad’s blond hair hung out two inches from under his navy-blue baseball hat. His feet were kicked up on the edge of the coffee table next to the bag. Brad held a small map that he’d printed out. “So you want us parked here?” He leaned toward the edge of the couch and held the paper up so David could see it.

  David leaned forward in the recliner for a closer look. “Yeah. It will give us a good visual on the building, plus we can then slip out the back door on these streets here.” David pointed at the streets on the map. “Catch the freeway there and be on our way.”

  Tim walked back into the living room from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “Can I have a look at that map, Brad?” he asked.

  “Um, sure,” Brad said. He handed it over.

  Tim stood next to the couch, staring down at the map. “So you want to put the van on that mark there?” He tilted the map down, and Brad confirmed. “Yeah, that’s the same spot I would choose to park,” Tim said. He reached for his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I took a drive over to the club earlier and had a look around. I have a different route marked off that I think might work a little better for getting out of the area. I actually took a couple of photos with my phone.”

  “We’ve pretty much got this plotted out already,” Brad said.

  “Just take a look.” Tim took a seat on the couch between Chris and Brad. “I just think it makes more sense to leave in the other direction. Less populated,” Tim said. Tim started bringing up photos on his phone and showing them to Brad and Chris. “Plus the back exit in the trucking depot’s lot would give us a straight shot to the freeway entrance ramps. No stoplights, no nothing.”

  David watched the faces of Chris and Brad.

  “Have a look, David,” Tim said.

  David motioned for Tim to bring him the phone with the photos and the paper.

  Tim walked them to David, dropped them with him, and continued past to the small dining room table beside the kitchen area. Tim pulled out one of the metal-legged yellow chairs at the table and took a seat.

  David looked down at what Tim had put together. It took only a moment for it to dawn on David that Tim’s route was clearly better than the one he’d chosen. “Nah, we’re gonna stick with the original plan here,” David said.

  “You can’t tell me that this other route isn’t perfect,” Tim said.

  David turned in the chair and looked over his shoulder at Tim. “We’re going to stick with what we already had put together.”

  “Look, this is what I did. I ran my crew. I put together the plans,” Tim said. “The point is we want the easiest ways to get in and out. This isn’t a pissing match.”

  “We already have this planned out,” David said. He turned back toward the living room and looked at Chris and Brad on the couch. “So we’ll roll out of here around ten and…”

  “To hell with that,” Tim interrupted. “I put together a better route. It’s that simple.”

  David pulled the handle on the recliner, letting the recliner’s footrest slam back to a closed position. He pushed himself up from the chair. The recliner rocked back and forth when David’s weight lifted from it. David walked around the chair and took a few quick steps toward Tim. “Do you have a problem?”

  “No,” Tim said. He shrugged. “I’m just confused as to why you want to take your route as opposed to one that’s a straighter shot and has less of a chance of us being spotted.”

  David took another step toward him. “We’re doing it my way, so I guess you have a problem. I don’t think you’re understanding your role here.”

  Tim got off the chair and stood just an arm’s length away from David. “Okay, you know what? I need to say something. I’ve been hanging on to this since Guerro, and you damn sure confirmed it with the women in the alley. You’re not professional. Executing tied-up innocent women in the street isn’t what professionals do. Shooting Guerro seventeen times isn’t what professionals do.”

  “It’s called not leaving loose ends. As far as Guerro, that was intentional. The cops think he got hit by a rival gang. Exactly what they needed to think.”

  Tim said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought. Now, know your place. I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit. That’s your last warning.”

  David turned and walked back to his chair. He retook his seat in the recliner. As soon as he did, he was hurled forward. David landed with his knees to the floor and held out his arms to brace himself from hitting the coffee table. He snapped his head back over his shoulder. Tim had shoved the back of David’s chair hard enough to launch him from the seat. David got his feet under himself, and his eyes went to the bag on the coffee table in front of him. David jammed his hand into the bag and came back with a pistol. He spun, stood up straight, and held it out at Tim. David brought the sights up and pointed the gun directly at Tim’s head.

  “Whoa, whoa, hey!” Brad shouted.

  “Your guy wants to start some shit, so I’m going to end it,” David said. David could feel the pressure of his finger against the trigger—just millimeters from firing.

  “What, are you going to shoot me?” Tim asked. Tim looked at Chris and Brad, who had lifted themselves from the couch and moved to each side of the pair. They stared on, as still as statues. “You both know that what I plotted out is the better route,” Tim said. “But this is the guy you want running things?”

  “I’m thinking you should probably choose your words very wisely right now,” David said.

  “Either use that damn gun or get it out of my face,” Tim said.

  “Come on,” Chris said. “This isn’t that big of a deal.”

  “Nah, I think this guy is a problem. We can run this with just three guys. I should probably just put a bullet in his head and be done with it.”

  “Well?” Tim asked. “Are you going to do it? Or stand there and continue acting tough? Maybe you just need to chill out a little and be thankful when someone brings you a better plan than what you could put together yourself.”

  David walked directly to Tim and pressed the barrel of the gun against his forehead. He shoved his hand holding the gun forward, causing Tim’s head to snap back from the barrel’s pressure. “I should have just put you down in the street last night.”

  “Hey,” Chris said. He moved directly to David and grabbed the barrel of the gun. “Let’s all just cool down.”

  David could feel Chris pulling at the gun. The thought of wasting everyone around him ran through his head. He let the thought fade—the timing wasn’t right. David stared at Tim and didn’t blink. “That wasn’t very smart of you,” he said. David let the gun go and walked back to the chair.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rick knelt on the wood floor of the master bedroom, collecting some of the blood from the couple-of-inches-wide pool. He’d just finished photographing the master bedroom a few minutes prior.

  “Think that could be from the woman’s head wound?” I asked.

  “The cut above her eye?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Ric
k placed the sample into a tube and sealed it into an evidence bag. “Could be,” he said. “I’m going to get this room printed, top to bottom, dresser drawers, light switches, you name it, and then get everything back to the lab. I’ll get the prints run tonight before I head out.”

  “Appreciate that, Rick,” I said. I’d watched Rick print most of the home. Anything that a person could touch walking through an unknown house in what we figured to be the middle of the night, in darkness, had been dusted—each door and doorjamb of the lower level of the house, each chair back and surface edge. The handrail and walls in the stairwell leading to the second level of the home had been gone over. Rick even dusted the refrigerator handle and bathroom fixtures. If our intruder or intruders put an ungloved hand on anything, I was sure that we’d get a hit in the system, provided they were in it.

  Rick put the evidence bag into a gray tote, put a foot under himself, and stood. “I need to go to the car quick and get a bag and container for this lamp and jewelry box. The jewelry looks like somebody went through it and cherry-picked some items. There might be prints on the individual pieces, but I’ll have to check into that back at the station.”

  “Sure,” I said. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the number—a Florida caller with a number I didn’t recognize. I left my position just inside the door of the bedroom and walked back down to the first floor, minding the marked-off blood drips. I clicked Talk just as I walked out the back doors.

  “Lieutenant Kane,” I said.

  I heard a man clear his throat on the other end of the phone. “This is Randy Ramey. The Hillsborough County medical examiner told me to contact you.”

  The man’s voice sounded hoarse and strained.

  “Hello, Mr. Ramey,” I said. “My name is Lieutenant Carl Kane. First, let me extend my condolences regarding Gretchen and your stepson, Michael.”