by Scott Pratt
She slid her legs off the side of the bed and put her shoes on. She picked her purse up off the table and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
I walked to the door and held it for her. The cigarettes and the bottle of vodka remained on the bedside table. As she was going out the door, I said, “That Ketel One is pretty good stuff. Mind if I take it with me?”
CHAPTER 24
A couple of days later, we got a break.
Caroline had made a comprehensive list of stores that sold young girls’ clothing in the Tri-Cities area, and over the next forty-eight hours, she and a group of mothers from her dancing school descended on the stores like locusts. It was an amazing effort, led and organized by my wife. The mothers went out in pairs and questioned sales clerks and managers about whether a man had come in anytime in the past few months and purchased clothing for a young girl. A woman at a store in Kingsport recalled a man in early August who came in and bought several items: outfits, undergarments, shoes, etc. He spent more than three hundred dollars and paid in cash. The clerk remembered that the man said he was buying the clothing for a first-grader. It was to be a gift, he said. She described him as young, mid-twenties to early-thirties, white, medium-build. She couldn’t remember any specifics about his appearance other than she thought he was wearing a baseball cap of some sort. She didn’t remember the exact date he was in the store, but when I contacted the store manager, she said they had security cameras in the store and kept the video recordings for a year.
I met with the store manager and the clerk the next morning. They’d gone back over the security footage after the dance moms left and had found the man we were looking for. As I sat in the manager’s office gazing at the computer monitor, I wondered whether I was looking at a kidnapper, a child rapist, an extortionist and possibly a serial killer. There was nothing special about his appearance – he was medium height and build, wearing blue jeans, a short-sleeved, white shirt and work boots. He was also wearing a baseball cap with an Atlanta Braves logo on it. The cap was pulled low on his forehead, and the camera angles were such that they prevented me from getting a good look at his face. He walked with a limp, though. I didn’t know whether the condition that caused the limp was permanent or temporary, but at least it was something distinctive.
“Are there any cameras outside?” I asked the manager, who was middle-aged and wearing a pearl necklace.
“Yes,” she said. “A real-estate management firm based in New Jersey owns the shopping center and they contract with a security consultant in Ashville, North Carolina that operates and maintains the outside cameras.”
Getting a look at those tapes was a bit more involved, but after contentious calls to both the real estate management firm and the security consulting firm, neither of which were accustomed to releasing security tapes to anyone other than the police, I hopped in my truck and drove to Ashville, which was only an hour away. The office was on the twelfth floor of a building a couple of blocks from I-40. I was ushered into a private office by a balding young man wearing khakis and a yellow golf shirt. He sat me down at a monitor and told me to push play while he stood behind me. I watched the screen as the man in the Braves baseball cap walked out of the clothing store and climbed into a large, forest green, panel van that was parked in the middle of the lot.
“How many cameras in the lot?” I said over my shoulder.
“Three.”
“You’ve watched the video?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get the license plate?”
He leaned over me and started pushing keys. The back of the van came into focus. He pushed more keys, isolated the license plate, and zoomed in on it. The tag number was clear.
“Have you made me a copy of this?” I said.
“I have.”
“Gotcha,” I said as I jotted the tag number down.
I was back in Johnson City and sitting across from Special Agent Dedrick before noon.
“I think I have a video of the kidnapper,” I said, sliding a disc across his desk.
“You brought me a video of your clients?”
“Ever heard of Ernest Shanks?”
Dedrick looked at me dead-pan. “Of course I’ve heard of Ernest Shanks.”
“I went to see him.”
“Good for you.”
“He told me he liked to dress up the little girls he killed.”
“Good for him.”
“I thought maybe the guy who took Lindsay Monroe might do the same thing. All the profile information says he’s probably a budding serial killer and has some sexual issues. Some friends and I canvassed stores in the area that sell little girls’ clothing hoping we might find one that remembered a man buying clothes for a little girl. That’s unusual, don’t you think? A man buying clothing for a little girl?”
“I think it’s unusual that you’d go talk to a piece of garbage like Ernest Shanks.”
“We found one, at a store in Kingsport. A man who bought three hundred dollars worth of clothing for a first grader. He paid in cash so I couldn’t get you a credit card number, but the store had tapes. There’s a video of him buying the clothes on that disc, along with video of him walking to his van and driving away. The tag number is clear if you enhance the video a little. I wrote it down for you, though. As a courtesy.”
I pushed one of my business cards that had the tag number written on the back across the desk.
“There’s the tag number. Now all you have to do is find out where he lives and go get him. I’m guessing Lindsay will be there somewhere if he hasn’t killed her.”
Dedrick looked down at the disc and the card and then back up at me. He took a deep breath.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but if I remember correctly, you gave me a lecture on search and seizure law just a few days ago. Something about probable cause, wasn’t it?”
The comment didn’t merit a response.
“The reason I point that out is that in case you don’t know the law, or in case you’ve forgotten it, what the law says is that in order for me to ‘go get him’ I have to have a warrant of some kind. An arrest warrant, a search warrant, something like that. In order for me to obtain an arrest warrant or a search warrant, I have to draft an affidavit that lays out the reasons why a judge should sign the warrant and allow me to barge into this man’s house and search it or barge into his house and arrest him. In this case, if I understand you correctly, my reason, my probable cause, will be that a man bought some clothing for a little girl.”
“He fits the profile,” I said. “Young, male, white, driving a panel van. After you run the tag number and find out who he is, you might find more. Maybe he has a criminal record. Maybe he’s even a sex offender. Maybe he’s worked for Richard and Mary Monroe in the past.”
“And maybe he’s just a guy who bought some clothes for a kid. Maybe he bought them for his kid.”
“And maybe he bought them so he can dress up and photograph the little girls he’s kidnapped and plans to kidnap in the future. Before he kills them, of course. Or maybe after he kills them.”
“You’re way out of line, counselor,” Dedrick said. “We’ll run our investigation. We don’t need your help.”
He slid the disc and the card back to me.
“You’re not even going to look at it? Are you nuts? What if I’m right? What if this is the guy and he has Lindsay?”
“He isn’t the guy and he doesn’t have her.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because one of your clients killed her.”
“Then why isn’t one of my clients under arrest?”
“Very soon, counselor. Now get out.”
CHAPTER 25
“His name is Morelock. Dean Morelock. He’s an electrician by trade, which explains the van. He works for himself, does jobs on an independent contract basis.”
Earl Botts was speaking. After I left Dedrick’s office, I called Charles Russell immediately, delivered a copy of the video I’d gotten in Ashvil
le to him at his hotel, and Botts went to work. I didn’t know how he did it so quickly, but by 5:00 p.m., Botts had already put together a dossier on Dean Morelock. I was back in Russell’s hotel room to listen to what he had to say.
“Has he ever done a job for Richard and Mary?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” Botts said, “but it’s possible. Bolton Electric has done a couple of jobs at Richard’s when they were remodeling sections of the house, and this Morelock guy has done some sub-contracting work for Bolton Electric.”
“How long ago?”
“The last time Bolton Electric worked for them was eighteen months ago.”
“So Morelock could have been there.”
“It’s possible. We’ve made contact with Bolton, of course, and learned that they occasionally use independent contractors, but they’re not being as cooperative as they might be. We’re in the process of persuading the owner of the company to go back through his records to determine if Dean Morelock worked at Richard and Mary’s house. Unfortunately, the owner of the company, a Mr. Robert Bolton, is scuba diving in the Cayman Islands right now. It will take a day or two to get the information we need.”
“We might not have another day or two.”
“We know that,” Russell snapped. “We’ll handle it.”
“How?” I asked. “You’ll handle it how?”
“We’re going to pay Dean Morelock a visit.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“I want to be there,” I said.
“I figured as much,” Russell said. “Be back here in two hours.”
Morelock lived in a mobile home in the South Central community not far from the Nolichuckey River. The internet provided Botts with satellite photos, and he set about planning the raid from the hotel room with the precision of someone who had obviously spent a good deal of time in the military. I watched and listened with a mixture of fascination and anxiety as Botts summoned men into the suite. They arrived inconspicuously – individually or in pairs – over the course of the evening. Each man or pair of men retreated to a bedroom with Botts for half-an-hour or so and then left. A total of eight men, all of them stoic and hard-looking, came and went. Between visits, Botts talked on his cell phone and pored over a lap top computer. Russell, to my amazement, announced that he was going downstairs to the hotel bar and left the room. I asked him once whether he thought Richard and Mary should be apprised of what was going on. His answer was, “What if we’re wrong? You want to kill them with false hope?”
Around 9:00 p.m., Botts asked me to come and sit at the table.
“We’re going in at midnight,” he said. “Two of my men are in the woods outside Morelock’s home right now. They’ll provide recon and intelligence. At eleven thirty, we’ll leave here and drive to the river. You will stay with me. There will be clothing and protective gear for you in the van. What size boot do you wear?”
“Thirteen.”
“You can change on the way. Once the house is secure and Morelock is neutralized, you and I will go into the house. Do you have any experience in interrogation?”
“Of course. I’ve been a lawyer all my adult life. Before that, I was a Ranger.”
“If Lindsay is there, and she’s alive, we’ll secure her, remove her from the house, and take her directly to the hospital in Johnson City. Once she’s safe, we’ll call the police. In the meantime, we’ll hold Morelock. If Lindsay isn’t there, you’ll question Morelock and attempt to find out whether he took her, and if he did, where she is. You can use whatever tactics you deem necessary. If he admits he took her and she isn’t there, I’ll expect him to lead us to her, dead or alive.”
“And if he admits killing her and leads us to her body?”
“We’ll call the police after we’ve found her and they can take it from there.”
I studied Botts’ face – especially his eyes – looking for some clue, some insight into the man. He betrayed nothing.
“Who are these men that have been coming and going?” I asked. “Who are you?”
“We’re Mr. Russell’s employees. We manage risk.”
“What branch of the military were you with?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Is Botts your real name?”
“Botts is a name, and I answer to it, so I suppose the answer is yes. Just keep your eyes open and your mouth closed while we’re conducting our business. I’ve seen your service record. You should know the drill.”
“How did you get a hold of my service record?”
“The less you know about how we do things the better. To be perfectly honest, I’m uncomfortable with your presence here, and I’m certainly uncomfortable with you going along with us tonight. I told Charles as much, but he insists that you go, and he’s the boss.”
“Should I thank him or shoot him?”
“Ah, a little levity,” Botts said, but he wasn’t smiling. “I suppose it isn’t entirely inappropriate at this moment, but when we walk out the door of this hotel room in a couple of hours, I’ll expect you to leave your sense of humor behind.”
CHAPTER 26
A black van was waiting in the hotel parking garage at 11:30 p.m. As soon as I climbed into the rear through the sliding door, one of the five men sitting on the floor – there were no seats – tossed a bundle of clothing at me and I started changing into black utilities, black combat boots and a black, close-quarter vest. The vest was far more high-tech than what I’d worn so many years ago in combat. It had both hard and soft protective panels in it and weighed only four or five pounds. The other men in the van were checking their weapons – submachine guns and pistols – and their communication devices. Botts had climbed into the passenger seat in the front alongside the driver. I felt like I’d suddenly been dropped onto the set of a Hollywood thriller, but the weapons were real, the ammunition was real, and the feelings of danger and anticipation were visceral.
We drove for about half-an-hour and pulled off Highway 107 onto Charlie Carson Road. From looking at the aerial views Botts had pulled up on his computer, I knew Morelock’s trailer sat in a small clearing at the end of a gravel driveway that was approximately three hundred yards long. The driveway branched off of another driveway that wound through flat farm land that belonged to Morelock’s family. Botts had said the Morelocks had been farming the rich, river-bottom land for a hundred years, but the last two generations had been largely infertile and the few males they had produced hadn’t been interested in farming. The land the family owned was now leased to another farmer. Morelock’s mother still lived on a small plot in the old family home. His father was dead. Morelock lived alone on a part of the property near the river that was subject to spring floods and had never been cleared. It was a perfect place to conceal a stolen child.
The driver turned off the van headlights as we pulled off of Charlie Carson Road into the Morelock’s common driveway at midnight. The driveway that led to Dean Morelock’s trailer forked off to the right about a hundred yards in. Botts was talking on his radio to the men who were concealed in the trees around the trailer. About ten seconds after we passed the fork in the driveway, the van stopped and the driver turned off the engine. Botts keyed the microphone on the headset he was wearing and said, “You know what to do. Go.”
The five men in the rear of the van with me disappeared through the sliding door into the darkness without saying a word. I sat motionless for about thirty seconds before Botts said, “Let’s go, Dillard.”
I climbed out of the van and Botts handed me a small flashlight. We started walking at a brisk pace up the gravel driveway. The sky above was clear, the temperature around fifty, the moon a waning gibbous that provided enough light so that the driveway looked like a softly glowing tunnel through the trees and underbrush. When we were about a hundred feet from Morelock’s trailer we rounded a bend in the driveway and I could see beams from flashlights that were mounted on the submachine guns bouncing around inside. There had been no
loud noises when the front and back doors were breached. There was no yelling, no cursing, none of the mass, macho confusion I associated with police executing a search warrant and breaking into a house. Botts’ guys had gone in quickly and quietly.
Botts strode up the wooden steps of a small, rickety porch and entered the trailer. I was right on his heels. The smell of cat urine was so strong I almost gagged. One of Botts’ men was just inside the front door. He motioned to his left and Botts and I walked through Morelock’s small living room, down a short hallway and into a bedroom. Morelock was on the floor, face down, his wrists bound behind his back by plastic hand restraints. He was pale and scrawny, unclothed except for a pair of green boxer shorts, and he reeked of alcohol. Botts stood over him for a few seconds without saying anything. Two of his men were standing on either side of Morelock’s bed, their weapons trained on his head.
“Search it,” Botts said, and both of them left the room.
Botts was holding a small, high-powered flashlight in his right hand. He trained the beam on the back of Morelock’s head, looked at me, and said, “He’s all yours.”
I stood over Morelock, unsure. Then I thought of Lindsay Monroe, the innocence in her eyes, the beauty and the simplicity of her. I thought of Ernest Shanks baiting me, of him standing and looking down at his erection, of the evil he represented, and how this man, this thing on the floor at my feet was just like him, a destroyer of beauty, a defiler of innocence.
I reached down, grabbed a handful of his thinning hair, and jerked him upward. He felt like a rag doll as the adrenaline began to pump through me. I lifted him off the floor and tossed him against the wall of cheap, wood paneling. I wrapped my right hand around his throat and flipped on the flashlight that I held in my left hand. I shined the beam directly into his eyes.
“Where is she?”
His eyes were wild with fear. Mucous was running from his nose, and I could smell the urine that had poured from him when Botts’ men had rousted him from sleep. I let go of his throat and slapped him hard across the face.
