by James Hunt
Deep down she knew that a lot of this was conjecture, and the way she’d spun it was more like a pitch for a movie script to some production company. But she knew that this would catch the public’s eye, and it would spread like wildfire. This was the kind of story that brought enough exposure to catapult her to the big leagues.
Dustin ground his teeth, tapping his finger on his desk. He shifted his gaze between the computer screen and the file a few times before finally landing on Lacey. “And you’re ready for the consequences of this once it’s public?”
“Yes,” Lacey answered quickly.
“Are you sure? Because this story will directly contradict what the Chief of Police just told this city, and you can be damned sure that Hofster is going to fight you tooth and nail.” Dustin leaned forward. This time, it was his turn to scare her and test her conviction. “You really want to go up against the entire police force? Because attacking one of them is like attacking all of them. They take care of their own.”
“I understand the risks,” Lacey answered. “But Chase Grant isn’t a cop anymore. He was dismissed from the department. And he should be locked up in jail along with Pullman for what he did to Mary Sullivan.”
Dustin repressed a smile and shook his head as he reached for a tennis ball on his desk and started squeezing it. “I’ve met people with ice in their veins, but goddamn.” He chuckled. “All right, Lacey. We’ll run it at the top of the hour at noon.”
Lacey stood, collecting the documents off of Dustin’s desk. “Thank you.” She piled everything into the box, and when she stepped out of her boss’s office, she wanted to scream with victory. But she held it in, and her cheeks turned a bright red, burning through her make-up as she quickly headed back to her desk.
If the story was going to break at noon, then she only had an hour to prepare a package to send to the control room. And while she probably should have felt some kind of remorse over what this story would do to the people around Chase Grant, she didn’t. This was her big break, the one she’d been waiting for to catapult her into the top of her field. It was a dog eat dog world, and if she had to step on a few necks on the way to the top, then so be it. Better them than her.
10
Once back at the precinct, both Grant and Mocks returned to the conference room where Mocks had her team diligently working on theories of where, or what, Dennis Pullman was currently doing.
Detective Lane, Mocks’s right hand in Missing Persons, was busy combing through the crime scene photos of the bus driver and following up on the small transponder that was found near the body.
“Got a report back on that transponder.” Lane leaned back, hands folded over his stomach and the light blue button-up he wore, his underarms darkened with sweat. “It’s the same make and model as the transponders we found in Barry Finster’s house. But because the receiver hasn’t been turned on, we can’t trace the signal.” He looked up at Grant. “You think he’s building another bomb?”
Grant shook his head, noting Lane’s pale complexion. “That’s not his style.”
“Are you sure?” Mocks asked.
“The explosives used on the victims yesterday were made by the abductors who kidnapped them, not by Dennis himself. Dennis will stick to his style of hunting. Knives, firearms, his bare hands. An explosive is too impersonal. He’ll want to be in control of exactly where the death blow lands.” Grant stepped around the table and walked over to the board, where they’d taped a picture of Dennis. “What happened yesterday and what will happen today are two separate narratives. He’s had ten years to plan and fantasize about this.”
Lane typed away on his computer, perking up as he cleared his throat. “Authorities found the school bus. It was parked at a gas station a few blocks from the school. The recording device on the bus was removed.”
Mocks grabbed Lane’s shoulder, and the detective jolted. “Get with Hickem. See what we can pull from any local CCTV or traffic cameras.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lane collected his laptop and disappeared from the conference room.
Grant gestured to Lane’s empty chair after he was gone. “Is he all right?”
“He’s on edge. We’re all on edge.” Mocks walked to Grant, both of them staring at the picture. “What are you thinking?”
Grant bit the inside of his cheek, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m thinking Pullman wanted us to know he was on the bus. It was why he killed the driver. Another one of his little breadcrumbs.” He turned away, rubbing his eyes. He had spent far too much time staring at pictures of Dennis Pullman. “We have any luck with the hotline or message boards after the Chief’s press conference?”
Mocks laughed. “The lines are flooded. It’s like Dennis Pullman has become Bigfoot. Every person in Seattle seems to have seen him, but so far nothing has been solid enough to make its way up the chain to me.”
Grant flattened his palms into the conference room table, trying to jumpstart his fatigued concentration. “What would Dennis have to gain to go after the judge’s son besides getting back at the man who sentenced him to life without parole?”
“He wants to send a message?” Mocks shrugged, grasping at straws. “He’s already taken out a State Attorney General and escaped from one of the most secure facilities in the state. Maybe this is all about toppling the system? You said he’s all about control.”
Grant nodded, following along. “It makes sense.” He pushed off the desk and straightened out. “He’s always thought he was better than everyone. He could be out to prove that now.”
Lane returned and sat down. “Hickem’s people were able to pull some traffic cam videos near the intersection where the bus was dropped off.”
Grant hovered over Lane’s shoulder, waiting for the video to load on the screen.
“The video confirms it was Pullman that drove the bus, and they managed to track him for a few blocks before he disappeared out of range,” Lane said, pointing to the separate video clips across his screen. “He just keeps walking.”
“Do we know where he’s walking?” Mocks asked.
“The Feds are using facial software to scan more traffic cameras in the area,” Lane answered.
Mocks’s phone rang, and she excused herself from the room to answer.
Every move that Pullman made, everything he said, was perfectly calibrated to make his enemies think that they had him cornered. It was a tactic he used against Jason Williams, the State Attorney General, and the same tactic that he used against Grant. Pullman didn’t just see the next move authorities would make, he saw the next ten moves they’d make. He anticipated and outmaneuvered.
Grant stared at Pullman’s picture from across the room, his focus sharpening, his mind rifling through all of the different scenarios. “What are you trying to prove?”
Mocks returned to the room, phone in her hand. “The unit I placed outside of the judge’s house just told me that he left.”
“Where?” Grant asked.
Color flushed Mocks’s pale complexion. “They don’t know. They lost him.” She pulled up a chair next to Lane. “I’ve sent out an APB for the judge’s license plate. Hickem said he gave you access to the camera systems. I need you to find him for me, Lane. Now.”
Grant’s pulse raced, and he circled the conference room, drilling down on why Pullman would want or need Brockwater. Access to a courthouse? A federal building? He stopped, tilting his head to the side in realization. “Jury files.”
During a traditional hearing, the names of the jury are made public. But in certain high-profile cases where the jury could potentially come under intense scrutiny or be subject to attacks and bodily harm after the case was over, like in convicting a serial killer, a judge could put a gag order on the identities of the jurors to protect them.
Grant looked back to Pullman’s picture, the expression of realization slowly stretching to horror. “The names of the jurors who convicted him were sealed by Brockwater’s orders, but the judge would have access to those names
.”
Mocks lifted her head from behind Lane’s computer. “That’s why Dennis went after the son, to use him as leverage to get the jury names.”
“I’ve got something.” Lane straightened in his seat. “Looks like the judge turned off the I-5 on Exit Forty-two and headed north.”
“What’s the time stamp?” Grant asked.
“Five minutes ago,” Lane answered.
Grant moved toward the door, pulling Mocks with him as she pointed back toward Lane.
“Keep tracking his movements and get as many units in pursuit as we can. SWAT, troopers, anyone who’s close. I want you relaying the Judge’s movements to everyone!” Mocks sprinted to catch up to Grant, the pair heading toward Mocks’s Crown Vic. “Time to nail this fucker.”
11
The ride in the back of the judge’s SUV wasn’t as comfortable as Dennis would have liked, but it was a small price to pay for watching old hard-as-stone Brockwater tremble as Dennis aimed his pistol at the man’s son. It always amazed him how quickly people could be swayed by such a little thing as threatening to kill a loved one.
Dennis smiled, his groin stiffening from the excitement. It had been a long time since he’d been so close to the edge.
Before things became too excited, Dennis reached for the shot of insulin he’d brought with him. He rolled up his sleeve and watched intently as he sank the needle into his flesh and pressed down. He’d been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes during his time in prison, which he blamed on his poor diet and lack of exercise.
The car slowed, and Dennis discarded the needle and lifted his head to get a look out the window. They passed large houses crammed together on small lots until one last turn into a driveway brought them to a stop.
Brockwater shifted into park. “We’re here.”
Dennis peered through the crack in the backseat, seeing that the son was still asleep. It wouldn’t be long until the brat woke up though. Just in time to watch the show. “Throw the keys into the backseat and then come and let me out.”
The engine shut off and the keys landed on Dennis’s leg, and the man who opened the rear door looked more ghost than human.
Dennis slid out of the back, concealing the weapon as he glanced around the neighborhood to ensure that they were alone. There wasn’t anyone outside, no nosy neighbors to contend with, at least for now. He was sure that would change once the screaming started.
“Get your son out of the backseat and carry him up to the door,” Dennis said, shutting the SUV’s rear hatch.
“Please,” Brockwater said. “Just leave him out of this.”
Dennis took an aggressive step toward Brockwater. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He smiled, flashing those sharpened canines.
Brockwater did as he was told, scooping his unconscious boy out of the backseat.
Dennis had made the judge call before their arrival to make sure that old Larry Winger was at home and not out screwing one of the four women that he saw periodically throughout the month, two of whom were married.
Dennis stood off to the side so that Winger couldn’t see Dennis should the prosecutor decide to be careful, though Dennis believed that the man didn’t have any reason not to trust the judge. After all, both men were on the same side of the law.
The door opened, and before Brockwater could open his mouth and ruin a perfectly good ambush, Dennis rushed the door and burst inside.
“Gah!” The door smashed into Winger’s face and knocked him backward on his ass. “Harold, what the fu—”
Dennis aimed the gun at Winger. “Ah-ah. You’ll need to watch your language in front of the child.” He ushered Brockwater in, and then shut and locked the door behind them.
Winger, still bleeding and in shock from the quick blow to his face, glanced between Brockwater and Dennis, his expression hinting that he thought he might be dreaming.
“It’s good to see you again, Counselor,” Dennis said, his excitement genuine.
“What— Harold, what happened to your son?” Winger struggled to get to his feet, keeping his distance between himself and Dennis’s pistol.
“I wouldn’t worry about the boy if I were you,” Dennis said. “He’s not the one who put me away for ten years. You, on the other hand…” He walked toward Winger, savoring every quiver that the man let loose when he pressed the barrel of the gun into Winger’s stomach. “Are very much fucked.” Dennis quickly raised his hand to his mouth. “Oh, I forgot about my own rule for language.” He looked back to Brockwater and then shoved Winger into the depths of his own house. “Move. Now.”
The three hostages moved forward, and the boy stirred in Brockwater’s arms. The judge, being the attentive father that he was, found the nearest couch and gently laid the boy down, brushing his hair back with the softest touch.
Dennis had never been touched like that in his life, and a surge of jealousy flooded his veins. But he didn’t let it distract him. There was too much to be done.
Winger kept one hand plugged beneath his nostrils. “You’re a dead man, Pullman. I’ve got a meeting in an hour, and the moment I don’t show up, people are going to come looking for me, and when they do—”
“I won’t need much time, Counselor,” Dennis said.
“Daddy?” Eddy woke up on the couch, his voice groggy and tired. “Daddy, what’s going on?”
Brockwater hushed his son and kept his body between the boy and Dennis, helpless as he offered himself as a human shield. “Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.”
“Just let the boy go,” Winger said. “At least be man enough to do that.”
Dennis removed a roll of duct tape from his pants and tossed it at the judge’s feet. “Tie him.” Once the son was secure, Brockwater stood, tears streaming down his face, though he refused to sob. One last act of defiance of a father trying to remain strong for his son.
“Dennis. Please.” Brockwater spoke slowly, carefully, as if his words could set off a bomb that would wipe them all out. One small misstep and the world would come crashing down around them and end the only shitty reality that they had ever known. “You have the names of the jurors, their addresses, what more do you want?”
Dennis spread his arms wide, smiling, waving the pistol in his hand with a reckless abandon that put them more on edge. “I want us to be together again! To give it one more try.” He pointed at Winger. “Because the truth is, I think that you were given too much credit for putting me away.” He laughed. “Hell, I’d already confessed to the killings! I should have been a shoo-in for the needle!” He stepped toward Winger, mimicking the prosecutor’s courtroom swagger. “It was right there in your hands, but it slipped through your fingers. But—” He raised a finger, and then turned toward Brockwater. “I suppose the real culprit for me not being six feet under would be you, Judge. What did you say again?” He tapped his chin, pretending like Brockwater’s words hadn’t been seared into his memory, repeating themselves every day for the past ten years. “Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Because of the brutal nature of these murders and your complete lack of empathy or guilt regarding these heinous crimes, I have determined that the quick release of death is too merciful. Instead, Mr. Pullman, you will be sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, and given your young age, it will be a very long time until your natural demise. And while you may not believe in a God, Mr. Pullman, I do, and I pray that on the day your life ends that you be sent to the place where all evil things reside and are further tortured for the life you lived on this Earth.” He smacked his palm on the nearby wall, which simulated the gavel that Brockwater had used to put an exclamation point at the end of the sentencing. Dennis slowly walked toward Brockwater, gun still lazily at his side. “You let your ego, your pride, and your own air of superiority be your downfall, Judge. You have spent so much time high up in that chair of yours that you started to truly believe that your word was the final judgement of anyone that passed through your courtroom.” He pointed to himself. “I am the final j
udgement. Not you. Me.”
Brockwater’s mouth quivered, and he shook his head. “Then make me suffer. Leave my boy out of this.”
Dennis examined the judge before him, and then sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He aimed at the judge’s mid-section and squeezed the trigger.
In one single instance, Dennis experienced all of the wonderful reactions: Brockwater’s face, the muffled scream from his son who had been gagged, and Winger’s wordless expression of shock and horror. It was the thrill of accomplishing something that was thought to be impossible.
Winger moved toward the judge, but Dennis turned toward Winger, and the moment the pistol was aimed at him, the former prosecutor, the man who had exuded so much charisma and confidence to jury and judge as he strutted across the courtroom, completely melted away.
“Please, no, God, please!” Winger begged and sobbed, collapsing to his knees. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die!”
Brockwater lay on his side, trembling as he clutched the wound on his stomach. Blood spread over his shirt like the bloom of a spring flower. Dennis walked to the judge, wonder in his eyes, and knelt by him.
“Beautiful.” Dennis smiled as he looked to Brockwater’s son, who turned his face away, crying. “You have to look, boy. You have to face it.” But when the boy didn’t listen, the anger buried deep beneath Dennis’s consciousness unleashed his savagery. He picked up the boy and threw him down next to his dying father. “Look at him! Look!” Dennis pressed the pistol against the boy’s temple, and then grabbed the judge’s head and forced the pair of dying eyes onto him. “You see? This is control. This is power!”
With all of Dennis’s attention on Brockwater and his son, Winger broke free, sprinting from the room, and Dennis screamed as he raised the pistol and fired twice, missing his target on the first shot, but connecting with Winger’s back on the second.
