by James Hunt
“You said that already.” Cathy struggled with the last button but managed to get it done. That was just the kind of woman she’d always been. If there was a will, there was a way.
Jimmy patted his stomach. “A little tighter than it was last year.”
“Well, I think we’ve both grown.” Cathy pushed out her stomach, laughing as she rubbed her own big belly.
After their youngest left for college three years ago, it had been just the two of them. Cathy retired last year at sixty-one, and with Jimmy nearing sixty-three, he found himself less and less inclined to head to work.
While the pair was far past the prime of their youth, more evident during their late-night lovemaking, which involved a lot more panting, sweat, and water breaks, he wanted to spend what little time he might have left with his wife. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Cathy rose on her tippy toes and pecked him on the lips. “Now, get out there and get those kids to school.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jimmy reached for the hoodie behind his head and flipped it over his balding dome. Outside, he turned one last time to look at his bride of forty-one years through the rain. “I’m definitely retiring after this year.”
“Whatever you say, old man!” Cathy kept the door open, laughing as Jimmy waddled out to his faded red Toyota Corolla.
The windows had fogged from the rain, and still grumbling and now wet, Jimmy cranked on the defroster as he battled traffic toward the bus depot.
Halfway to work, the rain stopped, the sky still a dull gray from the early morning light, and Jimmy reached for his thermos of coffee, chugging a big gulp to help prepare him for the troublemakers that he had to deal with.
While most adults his age griped about how kids these days were more obnoxious than the generation before, Jimmy hadn’t seen much of a change. There were good eggs, and there were bad eggs, and just a few hyperactive kids. Most of them would grow out of their bad habits, but Jimmy had no qualms if they did it sooner rather than later.
The Corolla’s windows were finally defogged by the time Jimmy arrived at work. He parked in his usual spot and saw the other drivers clustered outside the annex doors.
Their supervisor pulled up, parking in his designated spot, and Jimmy rolled his eyes over the sign that had been installed that said, “Reserved for Bussing Supervisor Charlie Kepler.”
Kepler had taken over three years ago after Dan Matthews retired and was one more reason that Jimmy regretted not retiring at the end of last year. Compared to the screaming kids he shuttled around, Jimmy would rather drive them around all day than have to listen to that man talk for more than ten minutes. Lucky for Jimmy though, the morning rundown didn’t normally take more than five.
Once Kepler unlocked the doors, Jimmy shuffled into the building as fast as he could, filing in behind April Smithers, who held the door for him.
“Hey, Jimbo!” April said. “Rain catch ya?”
Jimmy hung back, waiting for April to catch up to him, and then lowered his voice. “Nah, I was coming from my other girlfriend’s place, which is a little farther away than my house.”
April slapped his back but smiled. “Oh, you’re bad. Don’t make me call your wife, Jimmy.”
“Oh, she knows.”
April cackled, flinging her head back, representing one of the good reasons why Jimmy hadn’t retired just yet. There was a camaraderie with the other drivers that he knew he wouldn’t be able to recreate anywhere else.
Most of them had been driving together for ten plus years. Jimmy had known April since she started twenty years ago. She used to babysit his kids when he and Cathy went out of town on the rare ‘adults only’ vacations. He’d miss her when this was done, along with their snickering in the back during the morning rundowns like they were in grade school.
The meeting was short, as expected, and Jimmy turned to April as Kepler finished with his usual line, mouthing the words along with him.
“And remember, let’s keep our eyes open.” Charlie clapped his hands. “Let’s get to it.”
Chairs squeaked across the concrete floor of the annex as the dozens of drivers for King County straightened up, heading to the cage to collect their keys from the lockbox and signing them out.
Jimmy wiggled back and forth while he waited in line, and April chuckled from his animated dance.
“You have some ants in your pants, Jimbo?” April asked.
“That coffee is running right through me,” Jimmy answered.
April arched her eyebrows and leaned her head back, which caused a double chin to form on her neck. “You drank that whole thing already? How are you not bouncing off the walls?”
“What do you think I’m doing right now?” Jimmy scribbled his name down on the paper and stashed the keys in his pocket, sprinting toward the bathrooms, trying to ignore April’s laughter fading behind him.
The bathroom was empty and Jimmy locked himself into the third stall. He dropped his pants and sat on the toilet, unsure of the coffee’s plans for him.
The relief was nearly instant, and Jimmy chuckled, thankful that he was alone, but wishing that the seat wasn’t so cold. He utilized what little toilet paper was left efficiently and flushed. As he pulled his pants up, his stall door still closed, the bathroom door swung inward.
Jimmy sucked in his gut, oblivious to the methodical steps that stopped in front of his door until he finally had his pants secure.
It was the pair of shoes that caught his attention, the tips of the boots sticking beneath the bathroom stall door. They were dirty, scuffed to hell.
Jimmy stepped back, and his calf smacked into the toilet. He frowned. “Can I help you?”
No response.
Jimmy leaned closer, listening to the heavy breathing on the other side, and his heart pounded. Sweat dripped from his underarms, and his mouth dried up.
“Look, pal, I don’t know what kind of joke you’re playing, but I’m coming out.” Jimmy waited for some kind of response, a laugh, chuckle, something to reveal that it was just Kepler being a prick or something. The boots didn’t move. “That’s it.” Jimmy steeled himself, clenching his hands into fists, and then quickly reached for the lock.
The moment he unlatched the lock, the door swung inward, smacking Jimmy in the face and plunking him back onto the toilet seat, where he landed with a heavy thud.
Jimmy glanced up in time to watch the silhouette of a man clamp a hand over Jimmy’s mouth. He squirmed on the toilet, mumbling into the palm of his attacker. His hear pounded something awful and his chest tightened.
With all the calm of a doctor examining a patient, the attacker leaned close and smiled, exposing the pink lining of his mouth and baby-like teeth. Smooth cheeks framed a thin, gaunt face, grown unnatural by the grin that stretched wider even when Jimmy thought it couldn’t get any bigger. But it was the man’s eyes that terrified Jimmy. Dark eyes. So dark that it sucked up the light around them.
The stranger, who Jimmy had never seen in his life, lifted his one free hand and pressed his finger to his lips.
The stranger brandished a knife, and Jimmy’s mind glazed over in fear, his instincts telling him to run, except his body was glued to the toilet seat.
The stranger plunged the knife into Jimmy’s side. At first the pain put him in shock, overwhelming his senses, and Jimmy’s eyes bulged from its sockets like a cartoon character.
It wasn’t until the killer plunged the knife in a second time that the pain set in, but it didn’t last long. Blood poured down the side of his jacket and dripped onto the dirty bathroom concrete. Jimmy’s eyelids half-closed, his final dying thoughts of his wife at home.
5
Grant struggled to sit still on the ride downtown, and the nerves only worsened when they reached police headquarters, which had already been besieged by reporters.
News vans, cameras, lights, and microphones were littered amongst the sea of reporters that buckled against the barricade around the building. The reporters stretched
their arms with their microphones over the railing, all of them fishing for comments from the hordes of police officers that had come at the request of both the mayor and the Chief of Police.
“Christ, it’s a madhouse,” Mocks said.
“Our worst days are their best days,” Grant said, thankful that Mocks had been granted entry through the parking garage at the Chief’s request. The less he had to deal with reporters, the better.
Mocks parked and they headed inside, following the lines of officers to the main conference hall, which was the largest room in the building. Grant had visited a few times for charity events and award ceremonies when he was on the force. It had a mildew smell to it. Still did.
Dressed in the same clothes from yesterday, Grant kept toward the back of the hall with Mocks while they waited for the Chief.
As the room filled, so did the chatter, but it was kept to a low murmur. Most of the cops were asking what they’d been called in for, some of them on their days off.
Mocks leaned closer to Grant, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Chief Hofster requested every captain in the city to attend.”
The Chief and the mayor no doubt wanted every available resource to catch Pullman. But even with the room filled to capacity and all of the combined years of law enforcement experience, Grant wasn’t sure if it was enough to catch Pullman before he set the city on fire.
The chatter fell silent when the Chief entered at the front of the room alongside the mayor, every officer standing at attention.
Chief Hofster was a broad-shouldered man a few years shy of fifty. He had been elected to the position last spring and was the youngest police chief in Seattle’s history. With a military-styled crew cut of light brown hair and a barrel for a chest, he projected a no-nonsense authority, but from what Grant had heard from Mocks, he was a good man. And to earn Mocks’s respect was a difficult task.
“Have a seat, everyone,” Hofster said, clearing his throat into the microphone as he gripped the podium while the mayor stood to his right. “The Mayor and I thought it best to jump ahead of this and bring everyone up to speed before the rumor mill started to crank out their misinformation.” Hofster thumbed toward the front of the building and the reporters camped out front, which earned a few laughs from the room.
The speaker whined with some feedback as Hofster adjusted the mic, and the Chief’s expression hardened by the creases along his mouth and forehead.
“Yesterday I was notified that an inmate at Washington State Penitentiary outside of Walla Walla had coordinated the abduction of three individuals,” Hofster said. “The inmate was Dennis Pullman.”
Another wave of murmurs spread throughout the room, but when Hofster cleared his throat again, the room fell silent.
“Most of us in this room were on the force ten years ago when Pullman terrorized our city over the span of eighteen months and abducted, tortured, and then murdered twelve men and women. By radicalizing four individuals through hidden messages in his mail correspondence, Pullman orchestrated the abduction of three individuals: Kelly Sears, Susie Mullins, and Mary Sullivan.”
Grant broke out into a cold sweat at the mention of Mary’s name. He bent forward slightly, his stomach twisted into knots.
“Through tireless efforts, both Kelly Sears and Susie Mullins were successfully recovered. Unfortunately, Mary Sullivan was killed in an explosion before we could find her.” Hofster paused, glancing down at his notes, the moment of silence ending with a quick swipe of the Chief’s upper lip. “Last night, after leading authorities on a chase of his coordinated abductions, Pullman escaped from custody, and during the escape, State Attorney General Jason Williams was murdered, along with the jail officer who Pullman had also radicalized to help him during his escape.”
Chatter started up again, this time growing into a dull roar before Hofster managed to quiet the captains and precinct leaders.
“We will be distributing information packets at the end of this meeting, and the mayor, along with the governor, has already approved overtime for all precincts to provide us the necessary manpower to capture Pullman. But before we break, I wanted to take a moment and remind everyone of the type of killer that we’re dealing with.” Hofster flipped a page on his podium and then glanced out to the room, taking his time to eye every single officer under his command. “Dennis Pullman is highly intelligent. He’s merciless, emotionless, and efficiently deadly with a weapon. He’s the most dangerous individual that any of us will come across during our career. We are in triage mode, ladies and gentlemen, and we need to stop the bleeding before it gets worse.” He glanced off stage, paused, and then nodded. “In addition to the resources that the mayor and governor have provided, we’ll also be working in coordination with the FBI. To speak more on that, I’ll be turning it over to FBI Director Chad Hickem.”
While Hofster stepped away from the podium, a murmur of surprise and confusion traveled through the room as Hickem stepped inside. Mocks leaned into Grant, shaking her head.
“Why am I not surprised?” Mocks said.
It had been a while since Grant had seen Hickem. While the pair had never been enemies, they’d certainly never been friends.
“Thank you, Chief. And thank you, Mayor Williford, for allowing the Bureau to assist with this investigation.”
Mocks scoffed. “Director of the FBI and he’s still a kiss ass.”
Hickem dwarfed the podium and made the broad-shouldered Hofster look scrawny in comparison. Built like a linebacker with the methodical mind of an engineer, Hickem had scraped his way from a lowly federal agent to the top of the food chain in only a few years. He was an opportunist, and catching one of the country’s deadliest serial killers would no doubt bolster his credentials.
“Good morning, officers,” Hickem said, his voice booming through the loudspeakers. “I’ll make this brief as I know you’re all as eager as I am to start our investigation, but I wanted to speak to everyone and assure you that the mission of the FBI during this investigation is to assist and aid your teams on the ground. Our resources and our experience are at your disposal. I’ll be providing liaisons to each of your precincts for any questions or assistance you deem necessary. I’ll also be placing Dennis Pullman at the top of our Most Wanted List until his capture. Good luck and thank you.”
Hickem stepped away from the podium to mild-mannered applause, led by Chief Hofster, who reclaimed his position at the podium.
“The mayor and I will be handling all PR on this case, so any questions directed to you or your teams, please kick them our way,” Hofster said. “That’s it, so let’s get to work.”
The room erupted into motion, and Mocks and Grant were the first two that filed out of the ballroom, but they didn’t make it far.
“Lieutenant!” Hofster shouted, standing next to Hickem, and gestured for her and Grant to join him.
Mocks begrudgingly complied, and Grant followed to make sure that she didn’t do anything she’d regret.
“Lieutenant, I wanted to let you know that Director Hickem will be your liaison in the investigation.” Hofster clapped her on the shoulder and smiled. “I understand the two of you have some history working together.”
“Unfortunately.” Mocks faked a smile.
“I’ll let you get to it.” Hofster retreated into the crowd. “Keep me updated on your progress.”
Mocks dropped her smile, but Hickem retained his shit-eating grin.
“I didn’t realize that the Director of the FBI had so much free time,” Mocks said.
“Catching the man at the top of our Most Wanted List is the FBI’s highest priority.” Hickem turned to Grant, and the men shook hands, Hickem squeezing harder than necessary. “I heard Pullman has it out for you, Grant. Though I’m not surprised to see you charging head first into this without looking.”
“Good to see you too, Hickem,” Grant said.
Hickem tilted his head to the side. “You might not be saying that after what I’ve got to show you.” He s
tepped away, gesturing for both Mocks and Grant to follow.
Hickem led them to a side door off the main hallway of the large conference room and stepped into an empty office. He shut and locked the door after everyone was inside, and then pulled out his phone. “The Chief has already brought me up to speed on all of the events, including the incident with Mary Sullivan.” He glared at Grant as he worked his fingers deftly over the phone’s screen.
Mocks crossed her arms. “And what were you told about Mary Sullivan?”
“Hey, I’m not here to pick a fight,” Hickem answered.
“And why don’t I believe you?” Mocks asked.
Hickem laughed. “If I recall correctly, the only reason Grant didn’t go to jail during the last case he worked was because of me.”
“And if it weren’t for him, then you’d be dead,” Mocks said.
Hickem shrugged. “You scratch my back, and I scratch yours.” He flipped his phone’s screen toward Grant and Mocks and tilted it horizontally. “Just tap the screen to play it.”
Grant and Mocks exchanged a look, and Mocks tapped the black screen.
Two images split the screen in half, and both immediately knew what they were looking at.
“Fucking hell.” Mocks covered her mouth, and when she turned those green emeralds toward Grant, he thought that she might cry.
The image on the left of the screen was of Mary Sullivan, who was tied to a chair, gagged, and crying. Beneath her was the bomb that Dennis Pullman’s associate had constructed complete with a wireless receiver to a detonator miles away.
The image on the right side of the screen showed movement into a cabin where Grant had believed Mary was taken. But when the video revealed Grant bursting inside, there were only two televisions hooked up to two remote detonator devices. One for Mary Sullivan. Another for Mary’s husband and two children.
The body cam that Grant wore into the cabin didn’t reveal his face, only what he’d done. With a timer ticking down from thirty seconds, the man who’d constructed those bombs for Dennis Pullman, who they were able to identify as Barry Finster, told Grant that if he didn’t choose either Mary Sullivan or her family to die, then both bombs would explode.
