“I don’t think he’s here,” John said, putting his ear up to the door. “I don’t hear anything.”
Officer Lopez stepped up, knocked on the door and yelled, “Bergen. Craig Bergen. Are you in there? It’s the police. We have some questions to ask you. Open the door.” She stepped back, hand on her holstered gun.
There was no answer.
She looked back at the path leading to the beach area. The first stretch was open with the remaining length of path unseen because of sea grape bushes and native plantings. The vegetation obscured their view of the ocean, which could be heard rushing to shore in the background. Overhead, terns were flying toward the water, screeching at unseen concerns.
“Keep a watch out for Bergen,” Lopez said to the clerk. “Let us know if you see him coming.”
John nodded his head. “It’s hot,” he said again, seemingly not knowing what else to say.
Lopez was about to touch the doorknob when she stopped. She leaned over to get a better look at a red smear on the door where the doorknob was attached. “What does that look like to you?” she said to her fellow officers, stepping back for them to see. Her gut was churning as she thought of the lovely young Lissa.
Darrell peered at the smear. “Some kind of a red smudge. Looks like dried blood, but I can’t be sure. What do you think, Clark?” He backed away.
His partner took his turn and said, “Looks like dried blood to me, too. And I see a fingerprint in it.” He pointed at the knob.
“No,” the desk clerk said in disbelief. His eyes got large. He was mopping his face and neck with a kerchief. “No,” he said again. He looked at the police, dumbfounded. “We never have trouble here. Never. I run a good establishment.”
“And what’s that smell?” Lopez said, sniffing at the door jamb. “Bleach. It smells strong of bleach in there.” She turned to John. “You sure Bergen isn’t in here?”
“Sorta sure,” John said. “He stopped by the desk earlier to get a newspaper and said he was going to the beach. He spends a lot of time there. Sometimes he tells us about all the pretty girls he sees.” He smiled. Then, glancing at the blood, he frowned.
“Tucker, call the office and tell them what we’ve got here. Tell them to send the CSI Detectives here now. Clark and I will secure the room.” Lopez said.
John was instructed to keep away from the door and not to touch anything. He cooperated immediately, muttering unintelligibly under his breath about being hot. He complained about needing to get out of the sun.
Tucker went to the front of the building to his car and leaned against it. He spoke into the mic on his sleeve.
Lopez ushered everyone into the alcove behind the stairs. They leaned beside an ice-maker and some vending machines so to not be seen by anyone walking up from the ocean. She didn’t want Craig to be alarmed by their presence should he come by. Perspiring heavily, she was glad to be out of the hot sun, too.
The officers were watching the beach path for signs of their target. The wind whistled through the plantings and for awhile, all they saw were sea oats swaying in the breeze.
The first person walking the path from the beach toward the motel was an older man with dark, wrinkled skin. His skinny legs followed down to large sandaled feet. A cigar was clenched between his large lips. It kept moving up and down as he walked and hummed a tune.
Lopez looked over to John. He shook his head. Attentive to the action, he was watching everything play out before him. Stick to the script. The Play must be followed.
A tanned young man in a swimsuit and white tee shirt was next to come out of the thick shrubs toward the motel. He was carrying a yellow surfboard. Strolling leisurely, it was apparent he had not spotted the officers.
Lopez looked to John for a positive ID, her eyes darting from him to the male.
John indicated it was Bergen. He mopped his face and neck again with his kerchief and backed as far away from the group as he could.
The policewoman, her fingers to her lips for everyone to be quiet, spoke softly into her phone for Darrell to rejoin them. She called the station for more backup, apprising them that Bergen was in sight and heading for the motel.
Darrell crept behind the motel to the vending machines. He slowly walked to where Lopez was hidden.
After Bergen passed the alcove by his motel room door, he stopped and jammed the bottom of his surfboard into some sand. The police officers stepped out from the shadows while their quarry was reaching for his room key which was pinned inside his swimsuit pocket.
“What’s up, Officers?” Craig said, flashing his handsome grin. He was nervously looking at them, sweat beads dripping from his hairline. He attempted to back away a few feet.
The officers shifted their weight to keep him within their circle. “I’m Officer Lopez, and we have a few questions to ask you.” Seeing Bergen up close, the experienced officer assessed his age to be more in his twenties than in his teens.
“What’s this about?” Bergen asked, perspiration rolling down his neck, wetting the neckline of his shirt. Damp circles spotted the fabric under his armpits like half moons.
“We’re trying to locate a young girl named Lissa Powell. A 17-year-old redhead. You were seen talking with her on several occasions. And we have witnesses who claim you were to meet with her at the beach last night. Do you know where she is?” Lopez said.
“He had a redhead here at the motel with him last night,” John whispered to Lopez, leaning in closer to get his message across.
She acknowledged she heard him.
Seeing Officer Lopez briefly occupied, Bergen made a move. He bent down and tried to get between her and Clark, thinking he could maybe take down the woman, the smallest of the three. Bergen was not about to stay around for the questions and their discovering his real name.
As Bergen was ducking and darting away, Darrell reached long arms out and got a piece of his tee shirt. The damp fabric tore away as Bergen took off running straight toward the beach path.
Off balance, Darrell fell to one knee, caught himself with his left hand, and pushed up to get free from the sand.
Clark reached out to help him and the two of them got slowed down from the chase.
Bergen’s sandals flew off, and he strayed from the path into loose sand. The further he went, the more he got bogged down in the hot, soft sand hindering his pace. He struggled and cursed, arms flailing to gain some sort of balance. “If you come near me, I’ll kill you,” he said to the officers.
Lopez sprinted well ahead of the other policemen, lunged, and wrapped her arms tightly around Bergen’s bare lower legs for a tackle, the likes of which any NFL player would have been proud.
Her quarry dropped hard, face-down into a large bougainvillea bush.
Screaming from the pain of thorns piercing his chest and face, Bergen wrestled with the smaller officer. He tried to grab her gun, but she beat his hands away. The more he twisted and turned, the tighter she held on. She bested him every time.
Lopez was in her element.
Unbeknownst to Bergen, the officer’s grip strength was legendary in the local police force. He felt the full effect of that legend now.
Darrell and Clark recovered and were on him in a flurry of sand and vegetation. They grabbed Bergen’s arms and pinned them behind him. Darrell cuffed their prisoner’s hands and pulled him to his feet.
Bergen sputtered and spit, complaining about his skin hurting.
Darrell bent down to rub his sore left knee and noticed he had torn his pants when he fell. “You’re gonna pay for these,” he said to Bergen. The officer brushed sand from himself, keeping one hand on the prisoner.
Clark was breathing heavily from the chase and bent over to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. “I gotta lose some weight,” he gasped.
Lopez snickered, wiped sand from her uniform, and checked to see that her equipment was okay. Satisfied that nothing was missing or broken, she tightened her grip on the suspect. “Threatening to kill police offi
cers is not so smart, Bergen,” she said.
All of the officers’ short-sleeved uniforms were damp and still had bits of sand on them from the tussle. Their caps had fallen off, and their hair was mussed.
“I’ll get those for you,” John said. The motel manager retrieved the officers’ caps for them, brushed them off, and carried them with him. Looking satisfied with the outcome, he followed behind the group. This is going well. Daddy will be pleased.
Bergen was escorted to the front of his motel room and placed in the white plastic lawn chair, arms cuffed behind him. Small pieces of his ripped tee shirt hung off his neck. He was panting and angry.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the young man said. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Shut up,” Lopez said.
She asked the manager, “Where’s the key?”
John, unnerved by the events, handed her the motel’s master key. He stepped away from the door area.
“Thank you,” Lopez said. “Don't go anywhere. And where are those detectives I called for?”
Al came out the side entrance from the front desk to see what was going on but was told by John to go back to the office and get their first aid kit for Bergen’s wounds.
Al wrung his hands and rushed inside, muttering to himself in his native tongue.
“Get me a freakin’ doctor,” Bergen said. “Can’t you see I’m hurt?” Small droplets of blood were oozing from inflamed puncture wounds on his upper chest and face. “I’ll sue your asses off for this.”
“We’re not interested in anymore of your threats,” Lopez said. “We have enough probable cause to search the room now. Blood on the door and a sighting of a redhead matching the description of a missing girl seen here with you last night. We’re going in. She could be in there now. Hurt, or worse.”
“What redhead in my room? Who said that?” Bergen said. “That’s a lie.”
“Listen up. Pay attention to Darrell, here. He’s gonna read you your rights,” Lopez said.
Darrell recited the Miranda, speaking loud and clear to avoid any misunderstandings.
Bergen indicated he understood and told the officer to get lost. He struggled with the handcuffs behind him in a futile attempt to remove them. “Take these off. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Another police cruiser screeched into the motel parking lot. Doors opened and CSI Detectives got out. Carrying their gear, they approached Officer Lopez.
She brought them up to date on what information they had, and the Detectives began their investigation.
Inside the motel office, Al slapped his hand against his forehead and let out an expletive when he heard the sirens and saw more flashing lights. “Bad for business, Bad for business,” he said. He rushed the first aid kit to his boss.
The detectives donned plastic gloves and used the key to unlock Bergen’s room. When the door swung aside, an unmistakable whiff of bleach greeted them. It was strong enough to make them back away. They kept the door wide open for a few minutes to air it out.
“Now we know where the stolen bleach got to,” John said loudly to no one in particular. “Yep. That’s where my stolen bleach got to.” He pointed an accusing finger at Craig Bergen.
“What stolen bleach, you liar. What are you talking about?”
Their firearms drawn, the Detectives sucked in fresh air and entered the room.
“Lissa Powell. Are you in here?” one officer said, swinging his gun back and forth as he moved forward.
No answer.
“Lissa, it’s the police. We’re here to help you. It’s okay. You’re safe now. Come on out.”
They searched the room, looking under the bed and behind the furniture. Within the small room, there weren’t too many places for someone to secret themselves, or to be hidden.
“She’s not in here,” an office yelled to Lopez and the others. He continued looking around.
“I could have told you that,” Bergen said. “Stupid cops. I never had a redhead in my room. What a bunch of losers.”
Lopez looked at the motel manager who nodded his head and mouthed ‘Yes, there was.’
One of the officers guarding Bergen opened the first aid kit Al had handed him. Pulling things out and sorting through them, he was deciding what to use.
“Here, I’ll do that,” John said, taking it from his hands. “That way, you can watch your prisoner. Do you want me to put something on those wounds?” he said to Bergen as he removed the cap from a tube of ointment.
“You better believe I do. It hurts bad. I’m gonna sue you. All of you guys,” he said to the officers and the clerk. “I want a doctor, and I want my lawyer. We’re looking at police brutality here. They’ll arrest all of you, and if they don’t, I’ll get you.”
John put some ointment on a piece of square gauze and patted some on the open areas. While the others were occupied looking elsewhere, he also took something out of his pocket and applied scant traces of it to Bergen’s hands.
The angry prisoner was so upset he hardly noticed what the clerk was doing under the guise of helping him.
“I said I want to speak to my lawyer. Are you guys deaf or what?”
“Keep your shirt on,” Clark said back. Spying the tattered tee shirt, he laughed a little then regained his official look.
Detectives continued processing the scene while the officers watched and took turns keeping Bergen in his chair.
Across the street...
A car was stopped with the lone occupant observing the events at the motel.
“Look, I can see something going down here and I don’t like it,” the occupant rasped into his phone. “I can’t do this by myself. I need more help, or we’ll never keep up with this group.”
At Daddy’s office...
“Hi, Backer,” Daddy said.
“Hi, yourself. How’s it going?”
“Right on schedule. I heard from John. The Antagonist is cuffed, and the evidence is being collected,” Daddy said.
“Great. Call me when the Play is finished.”
“Will do,” Daddy said.
“Before you hang up, I have something important to tell you,” the Backer said. “There’s a mole in our midst. I don’t know who it is, but he’s working with a government committee. My sources tell me law enforcement at its highest level has put a task force together to find out how some crimes, through our Plays, have been solved. They’re worried about convictions being thrown out due to outside influences and tainted evidence, and also vigilante movements subverting the justice system. They are focused on something called the Theater Group. So far, they know the name we operate under, and a little bit about our structure. They even know someone in the Group is called ‘Daddy,’ although they don’t know who you are. They have a dated description of you but not a picture. This is worrisome. I think I can eliminate it, but it’s worrisome. Any idea who the problem person is?”
Daddy was surprised and concerned. He searched his thoughts for clues to the identity of their traitor.
“No,” Daddy said. “I’m caught off guard. I’ll have to give it some thought. What do you think? Any ideas?”
“As I said, I’m not sure, but I think we need to take action with several of your closest confidantes in the Group. It has to be someone who knows you fairly well. Someone who has knowledge on how the Group is run. Someone you trust. We can’t let them get your fingerprints. Are you still wearing the fake prints we had made?”
“Yes, I am. I use them whenever I send files out or the rare times I meet with people in person. ”
“Good,” the Backer said. “At least the mole won’t have your real prints. The new ones our fabricator came up with are the best. They’re lightweight, easy to apply and remove, and almost impossible to detect. Very realistic.”
“I know. I almost forget I have them on,” Daddy said. “And I don’t seem to be allergic to them, although I think Lissa is. She’s been rubbing her fingertips where they were attached.”
“We’ll have someone take a look at her fingers just to make sure she’s okay. Be careful, Daddy, and let me know if you think of anything that would lead us to the mole. Don’t take any unnecessary chances. We need to stop whoever it is. And we must do it now.”
“Thank you for the information. I’ll be careful,” Daddy said. “Keep me posted on what you learn, and I’ll contact you if I have any ideas about this. One more thing. Benny thought he was being followed recently. He managed to lose them, but that incident might be related to the mole.”
“Yes, it might. I’ll call Benny and discuss it with him. Talk to you soon,” the Backer said. He hung up the phone, more than a little concerned about Daddy and the Theater Group, the focus of his life and fortune.
Daddy felt an uneasiness creeping over him. Someone in my few trusted top confidantes is a mole. Who could it be? He made a mental list of the few names and faces of people who have almost daily contact with him in one way or another. The mole had to be someone who knows what he looks like, who saw him sometime without a disguise. He narrowed it down to three people and didn’t want to believe it was one of them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Later that week...
“Yes, I found it,” Ginny said. “At the edge of the beach, lodged in some sea grass in the sand dune. The same day they picked up Craig, er, Karl Blass. Imagine!” She cringed at the thought of Lissa’s boyfriend Craig Bergen turning out to be Karl Blass, the serial murder suspect known to the police and the press as ‘The Beach Boy.’
“I get the chills just thinking about it,” Ginny said. “I can hardly bear knowing that Lissa was ‘The Beach Boy’s’ date on the night she went missing. It’s horrible. All of it. And where is she?”
Everyone who read about ‘The Beach Boy’ agreed it was terrible that their charming community had been the temporary home of the infamous murderer. They were horrified that while the police and others had been looking for him up and down the east coast, he had been at their beachside community at The Banana Motel, a respected, well-run facility.
Justice and Revenge Page 4
