Chase, the Bad Baby: A Legal and Medical Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by John Ellsworth

  “Freeze!” she cried, and jammed the gun against his forehead.

  He quickly raised both arms.

  “Who else is here?” she said. “Fast before I fire.”

  “Just me,” he blurted. “Everyone is gone.”

  “Where’s Thaddeus?”

  “Who?”

  “Okay, we’ll do it that way,” she said, fully understanding that this guy wasn’t going to give them anything. Which was fine; she had her own Plan B for such an eventuality, courtesy of the CIA spooks she had been assigned to in Baghdad.

  “Bat, pull the kitchen table away from the wall.”

  “Got it.”

  “Little more. Give me two feet back there. You’re going to need to fit on that side.”

  “Done.”

  “All right,” she said to Ragman. “Up you go.”

  “What?”

  “Up on the table, asshole. On the table on your back. Now!”

  She slipped her finger inside the Glock’s trigger guard.

  The man complied, sitting backwards on the table and then scooting over and reclining onto his back.

  “Spread your arms wide open.”

  He complied and she removed the nylon belt she was wearing. “Bat, do what I’m doing with your belt.”

  “I don’t have a belt.”

  “Find something, then.”

  Bat went over to the blinds above the sink and ripped away the heavy cord.

  He returned to the table and tied the man’s left hand to the table leg on his side. Meanwhile, Christine had secured the right hand on her side. Now the guy was spread-eagled.

  “Open for business,” she said. “Go to the bathroom and get a towel.”

  Bat returned with a towel.

  “Now, where we came in through the laundry room, there’s a bucket. Retrieve, please.”

  Bat returned with the bucket and took it to the sink. “Fill?”

  “All the way,” she said.

  He handed the bucket to her.

  “Now hold him down, stretch out across his legs.”

  She placed the towel across Ragman’s face. Then she began a steady stream of water down into his mouth. Within seconds he was struggling his head side to side.

  “Reach up here with your hands and hold his head still.”

  Bat did as he was told and the pouring resumed. Now the choking began and didn’t stop. The man’s head was jerking violently against the water but Bat held him steady. This went on for much longer than a bystander might have guessed.

  Finally she relented and the flow of water stopped. The bucket stood half full.

  “Now I’m going to ask you again, asshole. Where’s Thaddeus?”

  “Umf-dun-kniw,” choked the voice beneath the towel.

  “You don’t know? Maybe this will help your memory.”

  She again poured water down into the towel, mouth level, until this time the bucket was empty and the struggling had ceased. She ripped the towel from the man’s face. His eyes were open and water gurgled out the side of his mouth. She turned his head to the side and slapped his face. Again, harder. He jerked back to life and began whimpering.

  No, no, no, no,” he begged.

  Without a word she again covered his face and repeated with another half bucket. Again the struggling ceased and again she uncovered him and slapped him back to consciousness.

  “Son of a bitch is out cold,” Bat said with no small amount of glee. “I never seen that before.”

  “I’ll keep it up until he drowns, if that’s what it takes,” she said to the open, frightened eyes. “More?”

  “He’s out by Palatine. North.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “2500 North Randolph Drive. It’s on the east side. Of the road. Back along gravel road.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, asshole. If he’s not alive you’re about to meet your seventy-two virgins. With my help.”

  “He was left alive.”

  “And?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “That’s not all you know. Give me the rest of it or I’ll float it out of you.”

  “No, no. They were going to burn the place.”

  “Wait here, asshole. We’re going to go find our friend. If he’s dead, I’ll be back. If he’s not dead, I’ll be back anyway. And when I come back I’m going to make sure you don’t scare of those virgins with your manhood. Get my drift?”

  “No, please.”

  “Save it. I’ll be back, so don’t leave.”

  “I’ll get something tied around his legs. Give me five.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Christine two-fingered a Marlboro out of a hard pack and lit up. She smoked it a third of the way down and tapped the ashes over the man’s face.

  “So you remember me,” she said.

  Then she lifted his shirt and angrily ground it out on his belly. Howls erupted and the motorcyclists out front saw Special Agent Pepper smile in the dark night. “Got him,” she said.

  “Remember me,” said Christine. “I’m coming back for you, mother. I want your balls.”

  “Please.”

  “Save it for someone who gives a shit. Kidnap a little girl? You and I have only just begun.”

  The agents stopped them downstairs.

  Christine gave Pepper the sit rep.

  “We’ll lead the way. Gentlemen, lights up.”

  The agents turned on their flashing red lights and put Christine and Bat into the van.

  Then the procession left, Code Three for Palatine.

  Two agents were left behind to take Ragman into custody. He was taken to the jail, fingerprinted and booked. He would make bail and walk free within twelve hours and the agents knew that. But for now, he was in custody and they were going to make inquiries of him. Lots of inquiries. It was going to be a long night for Luis M. Sanchez aka Ragman.

  61

  She was twenty-three, the victim of a home invasion while her husband was in the city, and had a fifteen-month-old to care for. They came into her farmhouse and locked her, with her baby, in the upstairs master bedroom closet. The makeshift lock consisted of a chair pushed backwards up under the doorknob.

  The baby’s diaper was overflowing and she was starving. Two hours past her bottle and she wouldn’t stop crying. So Teresa Merrill did what all good mothers would have done. She placed her back against the closet wall, raised both legs with feet against the locked door, and kicked with every bit of strength she had. Surprisingly the door easily swung open and crashed against the exterior wall.

  She climbed to her feet and inhaled a huge lungful of smoke.

  The house was on fire.

  Without another thought she scooped up her baby and tore downstairs. Which was when the saw the man, nude, laid out on the backboard. He was strapped from head to toe and it was unknown whether he was breathing. So she placed her baby on the floor and released all straps. His eyes were still closed. She patted his face. Nothing. So she slapped him—once, twice. His eyes fluttered open and she shook him

  “C’mon, mister, they’ve put us on fire.”

  He shook the cobwebs from his brain. The smoke curled into his nose and he abruptly regained consciousness. He sat up.

  “What?”

  “The house is on fire. Let’s get you outside.”

  He swung his legs over and stood. Wobbly at first, he reached for her shoulder.

  She didn’t mind. She had seen nude men before. Besides, this one was no threat; he could hardly stand. She picked up the baby, snagged Thaddeus’ suit pants, and led him outside onto the porch. Smoke was everywhere, as the place had been doused with kerosene from the barn and then set ablaze.

  He wanted to go back inside for his shirt. She refused to allow that.

  “Sit tight,” she said. “The neighbors will notice and call someone.”

  At which point he fainted dead away.

  S
he heard sirens approaching.

  “That didn’t take long,” she remarked to her baby.

  They pulled in, a van with flashing lights and three bikers with flashing lights.

  “Call the fire department!” she cried, which was unnecessary. The call had already been made by Special Agent Pepper from several hundred yards back down the road.

  The house wouldn’t be saved. The accelerant gave the fire too much of a head start.

  But the occupants were saved. They were transported by the EMTs to the hospital. Thaddeus was treated for smoke inhalation and kept overnight. Minor wounds were cleaned and dressed. The FBI agents posted local police officers at his door. The FBI gave Bat a ride back to Christine’s car. Christine remained behind at Thaddeus’ bedside. She would spend the night there, upright and alert, her Glock in plain view.

  The mother was examined in the ER and released. The baby was given a bottle of formula from the hospital nursery. The crying subsided and the mother breathed a prayer of thanks.

  62

  Saturday morning he worked until nine-thirty. The cleaning crew arrived and Juan Marenzenga appeared with his cart on the twenty-ninth floor of the American United Building. Thaddeus knew the FBI agents were downstairs, waiting for him to leave on foot or by car. They would be stationed in their black cars along the curb. Another car would be waiting across from the building’s parking garage exit ramp. He knew there would be no shaking them by normal means.

  He waited until Juan was inside his office, switching on lights so he could clean the wastebaskets and vacuum. Thaddeus met him in the client waiting area.

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m Thad. What’s your name?”

  “Juan.” The small Mexican man looked suspicious. For one thing, he was expecting to find the office empty. For another, he was surprised and startled that a gringo was taking the time to speak to him. Strange, indeed. He took a step toward the door. “Should I come back later?”

  Thaddeus smiled at the man. “No need. But I’m wondering whether you would like to earn an extra five hundred dollars this morning?” He reached inside his wallet and extracted five hundreds. He held them out to Juan.

  Juan refrained from accepting the money. But he wasn’t disinterested. “What do I have to do?”

  “You know the loading dock where you take the trash?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to take me there.”

  Juan’s look was totally quizzical. “Why don’t you just take the elevator there? You don’t have to pay me no five hundred dollars for that.”

  “No, you didn’t understand me. I want you to take me there.”

  “How could I do that?”

  Thaddeus pointed at the trash cart. It was five feet long, four feet high, on four six-inch wheels. A broom and two mops thrust upward from a canister on one end, a push bar extended across the other. It was black and said “49” in stencil characters.

  Juan eyed the cart. “You mean take you in that?”

  “Yes. I need to get out of the building without being seen.”

  “Is this your office?”

  “It is.”

  “Are you running from the police?”

  “I’m not. Would that make any difference?”

  Juan grew perplexed. “No. Not really.”

  “Look. You want the money, I need a ride. Deal?”

  Juan extended his hand as he nodded. “Deal.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Wait. What will you do at the loading dock? Do you have a gun?”

  Thaddeus spread open his suit coat and did a 360. “No gun. No knife. Just a harmless lawyer.”

  “Abogado.”

  “Sí, soy abogado.”

  “Sí.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Please, let me help you in.”

  “No need.”

  Thaddeus swung his legs up and over and settled back in the trash. The cart was half full of discarded paper towels from the restroom, discarded copy paper, and dozens of Chicago Tribunes and Daily Suns. He immediately began covering himself. Juan joined in and Thaddeus crossed his hands on his abdomen and settled in for the ride.

  * * *

  The cab ride from the American United Building back over to Schaumburg ate up twenty-five minutes, as Saturday morning outbound traffic heading was peaking. Stop and go, stop and go. Thaddeus sprawled across the back seat, staying low.

  He smiled. Ragman’s new American girlfriend sent him to the Barrington Farmers Market every Saturday morning without fail.

  * * *

  The market was outdoors, canvas stalls lined the street, and the pungent smell of barbecue spread. The crowd numbered in the hundreds, all drawn there by the promise of fresh fruit and vegetables.

  Lost in a throng of shoppers, Thaddeus squeezed in beside his man. Getting next to him was easy, as Ragman was checking out the young women in their halter tops and shorts. Thaddeus knew what was going on behind those driving glasses, knew they were seeing young flesh and ignoring the rest. Nobody would miss this guy. He was Mr. Hip, Slick, and Cool.

  Perfect, thought Thaddeus, as he watched Ragman ostensibly shopping for bananas but secretly shopping the girls. Even very young ones, the elevens, the twelves.

  When a young mother with a thirteen-year-old daughter gave Ragman a frosty glare, his eyes darted down to the banana display. She didn’t move, which unnerved him.

  Suddenly, he lifted a bunch of seven fruit to the sun, turning, turning. It appeared he was looking closely for spiders, for the fruit was known to ship from Latin America to Chicago with tarantulas stowed onboard. He held the bunch at the proximal portion of the vine and carefully examined it. Waiting, waiting, while the angry mother moved on.

  Ragman bent to replace the bananas in the display. Thaddeus, at his side, took one step back and jammed the 9 mm behind the man’s ear. He pulled the trigger three times.

  The yellow-lensed sunglasses flew into the display. He splayed forward across the yellow fruit.

  Thaddeus almost laughed as he pulled back into the crowd and disappeared. Bananas, he thought with a rush. The guy had actually let his guard down over a bunch of bananas. Thaddeus turned and put his back to the clamor as the looky-loos formed a circle around Ragur Amman Hussein, aka Ragman. “Is that blood?” the woman in the yellow shorts coveralls squealed.

  Christine had left the Tesla parked along Monagle Street. Thaddeus strolled nonchalantly through the crowd. He snapped the latex gloves from his hands as efficiently as the heart surgeon following transplantation. The gloves were stuffed inside a front jeans pocket. Fingerprints could be lifted from the inside of the gloves. No clues, not for the retinue of CSIs that would overrun the scene.

  He opened the car and congratulated himself. Three down. The targets had multiplied. It was like when Thaddeus was a young boy stripping the bark from rotting cottonwoods. The scorpions, exposed to the glaring Arizona sunlight, would scatter by the thousands. Same thing here. While not as many, they were every bit as deadly.

  And the original six—now three—who formed the group. Special Agent Pepper had referred to them as a cell. What of them? He slid across the seat, an angry scowl pulling at his face.

  They were a matter of national security, that much was now known.

  The why and the where and the when remained to be found out, though he already had a pretty good idea of the why.

  For him, he was finished with it. Let the FBI clean up the rest.

  He had his man face-down across a fruit stand. The new and improved Ragur Amman Hussein arrived in paradise at ten thirty-one a.m. Thaddeus wondered what the welcome was like.

  Once the body was removed the merchant would spray and sell the yellow fruit anyway.

  The guy wouldn’t be out a nickel.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Christine LePorte for another terrific editing job—you make me sound a lot better, as usual. Your corrections and feedback are invaluable; the
remaining mistakes are my own.

  Thanks to Deb Ellsworth for reading the drafts, giving your input, and encouragements.

  Thanks to Noel Harrison, Rebecca Murphy, Deb Ellsworth, Elizabeth Erwin, and Lynne Geoffrey for reading the first book and giving me feedback and hope.

  Thanks to Cary Lory Becker for her expert reading. Without her there would have been many more loose ends and untold tales. She was an enormous help and she is gratefully acknowledged.

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  —John Ellsworth

  About the Author

  John Ellsworth was born in Phoenix, Arizona, practiced law in Chicago and nationwide and retired in 2014. He has defended cases ranging from shoplifting to First Degree Murder to RICO to Tax Evasion, and has gone to jury trial on hundreds.

  His first book, The Defendants, was published on January 15, 2014. Beyond a Reasonable Death is his second book and was published in March, 2014. His third book, Attorney at Large, was published in June, 2014.

  John lives in Arizona with his wife, seven guinea pigs, and two dogs.

  * * *

  I love receiving emails from my readers. All emails will be answered—it may not be immediate as I also have to write my books each day, but you will hear back from me.

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  Also by John Ellsworth

  The Defendants

  Beyond a Reasonable Death

  Attorney at Large

  Chase, the Bad Baby

  Defending Turquoise

  The Mental Case

  Unspeakable Prayers (Jan. 2015)

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