[2001] Public Enemy Zero

by Andrew Mayne

  Mitch needed a boat with a gas tank that he could fill with gas siphoned from cars. There was no way he would be able to comfortably fill a large boat’s gas tank at a marina gas pump. He needed something small that he could dock without notice and make his way up the Intracoastal without calling attention to himself.

  The next two blocks went by without incident. Finally, he came to the marina. Across an almost-empty parking lot, he could see the docks. He could make out several tall masts and a few luxury yachts. A slightly more upscale marina was a good thing.

  When he worked at a marina, during one college summer, he got a pretty good understanding of boaters and what life was like around a marina. Many of the larger boats were lucky to get used more than a weekend a month. Owners bought them for the prestige and the potential for adventure but then grew bored with them and frustrated by the expense.

  Smaller fishing boats tended to get a lot more use. The bigger luxury yachts often had at least one crew member who lived on board to take care of the boat. The kind of boat Mitchell was looking for would either be tethered to one of the larger boats or tied off at the far end of the marina.

  Within the ecosystem of a marina, you had people who rented berth space for their pleasure craft or charter boats. Then you had people who rented smaller slips for boats they used to provide services to the bigger craft like boat detailing and servicing electronics.

  The marina he had worked at owned two small johnboats they used to navigate around the marina and go up and down the waterway to run errands. They were usually tied off on the dock and secured with a cable that went from a metal loop attached to the boat and around a support. Often the key for the lock would be somewhere on the boat itself.

  Mitchell stood by a palm tree and watched the marina for movement. The docks were separated from the parking lot by two gates. Near the closest one there was a single-story building that served as the office.

  It was a tossup if there was anybody in the office watching the boats. The most common kind of crime in a marina was people pulling up in small boats and stealing things off the deck like rod holders and any kind of gear left out in the open. Boat owners tried to keep everything of value fastened down or in lockboxes.

  The good thing for Mitchell was he could pop open a fiberglass lockbox pretty quickly with his tire iron. First he had to find a boat and make sure it started. There was little point doing a smash-and-grab if he couldn’t make a clean getaway.

  Mitchell waited another few minutes and saw two men carrying fishing gear and heading down one of the docks toward the parking lot. They were on the opposite side of where he wanted to go and could possibly serve as a distraction as they unlocked the gate to leave.

  Staying close to a low wall at the far end of the marina, Mitchell walked toward the seawall. He tried to stay in the shadows behind the lights that illuminated the parking lot. He got to the sidewalk and looked out at the boats in the marina. On the side of the dock closest to him he saw a fourteen-foot Boston Whaler. It was bigger then what he needed.

  Mitchell wrestled with the idea of just trying to take that boat and switch it out for a different boat later when he noticed that tied up next to it was a smaller aluminum boat with a dark green hull. It had a 20-horsepower engine and an exposed gas tank. It also had a center console that would make steering a little easier.

  That could be the one, he thought. The trick was getting to it. Mitchell looked over the edge of the seawall. It was near low tide. He could see a small concrete ledge below the rocky wall. It was only a few inches but enough for his toes to stand on. Worst-case scenario, the water was probably only three feet deep. He’d just have to keep his bag above the water if he fell in. He put the tire iron in his bag and got ready.

  Mitchell looked down the sidewalk and saw the far gate swing open. The sound echoed across the quiet marina. Using that as cover, he got on all fours and lowered himself onto the lower edge.

  He could feel the rough edges of the rocks on the seawall against his knees. His fingertips held onto the concrete lip as he ducked his head out of sight. His feet found the small ledge and he lowered his weight onto it.

  Sliding one foot after the other, he moved his body toward the ramp that led up to the gate. He stopped for a moment when he realized he’d never bothered to check if the gate was unlocked to begin with.

  He craned his neck to look up at the gate. That was when he saw a surveillance camera for the first time. The camera was aimed at anybody walking through the gate. Mitchell felt a little better about taking the indirect route.

  If he could avoid being seen walking onto the dock and hopefully never be observed at the marina at all, it made his chances of a clean getaway that much better.

  Mitchell slid over to the underside of the ramp. The boat he was after was about ten feet away tied to a pylon. A wire cable went from the steering wheel, through a rod holder and through the rung of a ladder that led down to it and the Boston Whaler.

  The original plan was to climb up onto the dock and walk over to the boat like a civilized person. Because of the camera, Mitchell had to hang from the edge of the dock and scramble like a monkey while trying not to get his feet wet.

  Halfway to the boat, Mitchell could hear footsteps on the dock. He froze. They sounded far off but getting closer. Should he stay where he was and leave his fingers in the open?

  The ladder was only a few feet away. Mitchell decided to hurry toward it and hide underneath the dock behind it. He shimmied along and almost fell into the water when his hand hit an unexpected rope cleat.

  He pulled himself behind the ladder and waited. The footsteps grew louder on the wooden dock above. He could also hear the sound of something being rolled. Probably a cart with gear in it.

  A few tense moments later, he heard the sound of a key going into the lock on the gate. It opened and then closed. Mitchell waited another minute to see if he could hear any other footsteps. The dock sounded empty.

  He lowered himself into the boat and looked around. The gas tank felt at least half full. That would give him a couple hours. He made a note to find an extra gas tank and fill it up when he could so he could avoid having to go ashore whenever possible.

  Mitch examined the cable lock. There was no way he was going to be able to just pry it open. The ladder it went through was made from aluminum and was bolted to the dock. It was doubtful he’d be able to rip it free and just take it with him.

  He looked around the boat for a likely spot to hide a key. He reached under the wooden center console and tried to find a hook or a peg where the key might be hanging. Nothing. He looked under the console and saw a few cables and a beer cozy. Still nothing. He looked around the floor. Other than two oars, there was nothing that said “key.”

  Mitchell checked the gas tank and the outboard motor. The motor was also locked to the boat. There wasn’t anything that looked like it hid a key.

  Mitchell moved to the front of the boat and opened up the small compartment at the bow. Inside was the legally required life vest, some cushions, a rope and anchor and more beer cozies. He was about to close the hatch when he got the urge to stick his hand underneath the back edge. He slid it along the smooth inside and then felt something in the space between the hull and where the top of the compartment connected. It was a plastic hook with a small key ring.

  Mitchell pulled it out. There were two keys. One for the cable lock and one for the outboard motor lock. Mitchell unlocked the cable and stowed it in the compartment.

  There was still something else he needed. First, he had to make sure the boat would run. He figured it would be better to start the boat farther away from the dock and just glide in when he spotted the right boat.

  Mitchell pushed off on the pylon and the boat gently glided away from the dock. When he was twenty feet away, he pumped some gas into the engine using the hand bulb on the fuel line and then pulled the starter cord. He was expecting a small battle with the engine but it started right up.


  Mitchell steered the boat in a giant arc and went around the front of the marina. He wanted to get one more thing. He knew it was silly, but it would make him feel a little safer.

  He spotted the type of boat he was looking for and aimed his little boat toward it. Mitchell killed the engine and drifted toward the boat. He moved to the bow of the boat and caught the other boat with his hands.

  Trying to keep the boats from hitting, Mitchell moved the boat toward a dive platform at the stern of the large boat. He tied the smaller boat and then peered into the back of the boat. There were two large gear boxes.

  Feeling like a pirate, he climbed aboard the boat with his tire iron. Fuck, he told himself, he was a pirate at this point. Mitch pushed the flat edge near the lock of one and pried it. The fiberglass around the lock snapped and the lid opened. Inside was a pile of life vests and cushions.

  He closed the lid and pried open the other box. This time the lid made a much louder crack as it opened. Inside there was a flare gun, an emergency radio, diving masks and some other gear. He took the flare gun and a few other things and dropped them into his boat.

  Mitchell was about to climb in when he heard footsteps again. Still in the back of the larger boat, he squatted down behind the box he had just opened. He waited for the footsteps to pass him by.

  Only they didn’t.

  29

  Mitchell stayed down as low as he could, trying to keep his body out of sight of the person on the dock above him. Did they stop because they saw or heard something? Or did they stop because they sensed something like everyone else who attacked him?

  He decided to try to wait the person out. Rather than attract their attention and leap into his boat and make a getaway, he wanted to avoid having anybody know he stole the boat at least until morning. And even then he hoped nobody would make the connection right away between him and the boat.

  Mitchell waited. He heard shifting feet, but the person wasn’t moving. This was bad. If it had been a security guard, or at least one that didn’t have the rage, he’d probably see a flashlight beam poking around.

  This person was using his more basic senses to try to find him. Mitchell could hear a snort as the man took in more air. How did it work, Mitchell wondered? Did they get a small amount of his scent and try to zero in on him? Just one more question to add to the list.

  Frustrated, Mitchell poked his head around the edge of the box and looked up on the dock. He saw a black man with a beard in a windbreaker who looked to be in his mid-fifties standing there. His face was curled into a snarl as he twisted his head around, smelling the air. The man’s head jerked toward Mitchell.

  Damn! Mitchell cursed himself for not pulling his head away sooner. The man leaped from the dock and into the boat. The floor made a huge crack sound as the man landed.

  Mitch shot up and threw himself over the stern and onto the dive platform below. He felt hands reach out and grab at his neck. The man was trying to choke him.

  He tried to use his fingers to pull apart the man’s fingers but couldn’t get them to budge. Black spots began to form at the corner of his vision as his brain was cut off from blood. He felt something hot near his right ear as the man opened his mouth to bite it off.

  Mitch pulled his knees into his chest, putting his full weight on the man’s hands. The man’s grip didn’t let go as he was pulled farther over the edge. Mitch kicked out against the platform and brought the back of his head against the man’s nose. He heard it crack and could feel the warm trickle of blood on the back of his neck.

  The fingers slackened. Mitch wrenched his neck free and collapsed into his stolen boat. Blood returned to his head and the spots faded. He could hear the man behind him climbing over the edge of the larger boat.

  Mitch’s hand was on one of the oars. He gripped it like a baseball bat and turned around swinging. The narrow edge of the paddle hit the man in the side of the head. The oar made a loud thwack as it connected.

  Mitchell’s attacker slumped and fell over the edge of the boat and into the water. Mitchell leaned out and looked at the man as he lay face down in the water. Unconscious, he was about to drown.

  Damn it! Self-defense was one thing, but leaving a man to drown was another. Especially a man that apparently had no control over his actions.

  Mitchell set down the oar and grabbed the back of the man’s shirt. He pulled him toward the dive platform. Mitchell stepped out of his boat and dragged him out of the water and onto the platform.

  He felt for a pulse. His hands trembled at the thought of the man regaining consciousness at any moment and biting off his fingers or face. Not any expert by a long shot, he felt something he thought was a pulse. That would have to do.

  Mitchell pulled him into the back of the larger boat. He was tempted to try to lift him onto the dock in the hope that when the man awoke no one would notice that Mitchell had broken open the boxes. The risk of having the man come around didn’t seem worthwhile.

  Mitchell climbed back into his little boat and shoved off. He started the engine and drove away. He wished he could just head off into the night and drive until dawn, but there was one more thing he needed to do.

  30

  Detective Rios parked his police car in back of an evidence van near the car lot. He’d just finished taking statements at the diner and come to take a look at the mayhem. Firefighters had cordoned off an area around the downed power line while workers tried to get power back on.

  Mobile work lights hooked up to generators illuminated the damage the out-of-control tractor-trailer truck had caused. Lying on its side on top of a row of crushed cars, it looked like a giant sea creature that had been beached. The shadows of balloons and waving flags on the building behind made it look like one of the accidents his son would stage with his toys.

  Rios walked over to the cab of the truck where Simmons was kneeling. “What the hell did the kid do now?” he asked.

  “The people at the diner confirm it was him?” asked Simmons.

  “The ones inside did. The ones outside that chased him away are a little confused.”

  “Like the people back at the mall?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Rios stood back and looked at the lot from a different angle. He looked at where the trailer had ripped open. There was another row of smashed cars in front of it not visible from the street. A utility worker in a bucket at the end of a crane arm worked to unhook the power cables from the broken pole.

  Simmons stood up. “Any idea what he was doing at the truck stop, besides planning the world’s worst joy ride?”

  Rios shook his head. “I don’t think he was after the truck. One of the other rigs was broken into. It didn’t look like he was trying to steal it, though. The driver is a bit disoriented right now and can’t tell if anything is missing.”

  Simmons waved an arm at the rig. “If all he was after was petty theft, then why go through the trouble of stealing a tractor-trailer truck, driving it a quarter mile and then causing a million dollars worth of property damage?”

  “He’s a one-man doomsday machine. It’s what he does,” said Rios.

  Simmons shook her head. “I don’t buy it. The kid’s got no priors. No history of domestic abuse. Nothing even marginal. Unless some Facebook photos pop up of him wearing women’s underwear while reading ‘Soldier of Fortune,’ I think we’re dealing with a person who is just reacting to everything that happened today.”

  “Sometimes people just snap,” said Rios.

  “I don’t buy that. People with erratic behavior sometimes go way out of line and do something horrific, but there’s almost always signs there before.”

  “The breakup with the girlfriend,” replied Rios.

  “What about it? Everybody goes through breakups. I think we’re just looking at it as a convenient explanation.” Simmons paused for a moment. “I saw his girlfriend’s face, but I also saw the boyfriend, too. I don’t know if it’s what it looks like. We’ve been so focused on the mall, we haven’t even do
ne any proper forensics.”

  Rios folded his arms. “What about the parking officer?”

  “I don’t know. We just don’t know yet. When you talked to the people at the diner, the ones inside, did they say anything different than what other witnesses have said?” asked Simmons.

  “They could identify him. Not much else.”

  Simmons bit the edge of a nail as she thought. “What did they say about the people who chased after him?”

  Rios pulled a notebook from his back pocket and looked at it. “They said it looked like they wanted to kill him, which is understandable.”

  “Did they say ‘kill’ specifically?”

  Rios looked back at his notes. “One of them said ‘murder.’ Another said ‘tear apart.’”

  “Those are some pretty harsh words for someone doing a smash-and-grab.”

  “I think after what happened at the mall today half this city would like to murder him.”

  Simmons held up a finger. Something just came to her. “You said the people chasing him didn’t know who he was?”

  “Yeah, but they saw the other man chasing after him.”

  “The trucker with the gun? They didn’t know him, either?” asked Simmons.

  “Yeah, he was the one who caught him breaking into the other truck.”

  “Wait a second.” Simmons looked down the street toward the truck stop. “If you hear a gun go off and look out the window and see a man running away from another man with a gun, who do you think the victim is, assuming the guy with the gun isn’t a cop?”

  Rios arched an eyebrow.

  Simmons continued. “The men in the diner who went outside, automatically, without hesitation, go into vigilante mode and decide to chase after Mitchell Roberts? They ignore the man with the gun and decide they have to murder the guy trying to run away? That’s messed up. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Simmons walked over to the hood of the truck. She kneeled down to look at a bloody smear near the driver’s side door. “Did the men who chased him have any injuries?”