Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “Good. That one is a sick son of a bitch.”

  He smiled slightly. “A sick son of a bitch who’d be in jail if Cooper wasn’t a half-assed detective.”

  She sighed. “True. Maybe the Horsemen should deal with Cooper next.”

  He chuckled. “Let’s keep them focused on the bad guys for the most part.”

  “Yeah,” she said, settling her head onto his chest. “For the most part.”

  FOUR

  Sandy Banks sipped his diet Coke in the front seat of his blue Mazda. He stared up the street at an orange Chevy pickup truck with oversized tires. It was parked in front of the same bar it’d been parked in front of yesterday and the day before. Inside, Sandy figured that Troy Collins was no doubt drinking cheap domestic beer and shots. If he had to guess, he’d say that Collins was probably throwing a few lame pickup lines at the barflies collected there. Given what Sandy had learned about him over the past two weeks, the older ladies were probably getting most of the attention.

  Over the past hour, stiffness had worked itself into Sandy’s back. He shifted in the seat, but it didn’t do much good. The motion only jostled his bladder and reminded him why he shouldn’t drink caffeine when conducting surveillance.

  He ignored the sensation and settled into his seat.

  Was tonight the night?

  He wasn’t sure.

  But he thought so.

  There wasn’t any specific reason for his optimism. Just the intuition that came from his days on the job and even more, since leaving. He’d developed a sense for these things early on. Timing was everything, and for what he was doing now, time was on his side. He could afford to wait for the perfect situation.

  Actually, he couldn’t afford not to.

  Still, tonight felt good. Tonight felt lucky.

  Sandy rested his head back against the seat, keeping his eyes locked on the front door of the grimy downtown bar. He didn’t keep any files in the car with him, but he’d spent enough time at the storage unit memorizing what he needed to know about Troy Collins. And when he learned something new, he returned to the secret “office” housed in a storage unit and recorded it faithfully. Such things were habit for a retired policeman, true, but there was more to it than that. Keeping notes on targets was how he made sure to do things right. Getting the job done in the right way mattered. Besides that, it created a history. True, it was a history no one was ever going to read but he and the other Horsemen, but at least that way they knew what they were doing was right.

  Troy Collins was his first case in several months. He was a worthy target. The file on him detailed his criminal history, which dated back to things Collins did when he was fourteen. Sandy knew that getting the juvenile records was no small feat, but then again, everything about what they did was no small feat.

  Collins had been one lucky bastard, at least as far as Sandy could tell. His story was sprinkled with a seemingly unending supply of lenient judges, incompetent prosecutors, sharp defense attorneys, overzealous cops messing up procedure and victims unwilling to testify against him. The last category included a fifty-seven-year-old widow Margaret Thompson, who picked up Collins at a trendy north side bar that catered to more mature singles. Instead of the romantic interlude she expected at her home, she received a couple of hard slaps from Collins, who proceeded to rob her of $17,000 in cash and jewelry. After she reported him to police, Collins came back to her house, raped her and threatened to kill her if she didn’t drop the charges against him.

  Of course, Sandy knew no one would ever be able to prove the last part. The robbery detective that worked the case went up to see Margaret after she stopped returning his calls. She started by saying that she’d been mistaken about the money and jewelry. Then she broke down crying and told the detective enough for him to surmise what had happened. He tried to get Margaret to stay with family out of town somewhere until the trial, or barring that, to accept protective custody. But the terrified woman refused. She was certain that Collins would make good on his threat to come back and kill her.

  Sandy took another sip of his diet Coke. He thought about it for the hundredth time. Then, for the hundredth time, he decided that Margaret Thompson was probably right about that.

  The detective on the case was one Sandy didn’t know. He might have been a patrolman before Sandy left the job, but he wasn’t working in investigations. Nonetheless, he was a hard charger and not willing to let things go. He tried to go forward with the case based on Margaret’s original testimony. True, it was essentially her word against Collins’ word, especially since those slaps didn’t leave any marks. But the detective testified to her statements regarding the threats and the rape, even though she denied them in a pre-trial hearing.

  Sandy eyed the macho wheels on the truck Collins drove. He wondered if he used the money he robbed from Margaret to buy them.

  The law is a funny thing, Sandy knew. It was a fickle and capricious beast. Every cop learned within six months that it wasn’t what you knew, it was what you could prove. And that wasn’t the last of it, either. It wasn’t just what you could prove, but whether you played the game perfectly in the process of proving it. One mistake could derail an entire case.

  The detective in the Margaret Thompson case tried to get her statement to him based on an exception called “excited utterance.” The concept held that if people are under the influence of a significant emotional event, the things they blurt out tend to be true.

  The prosecution argued that this was the state of mind Margaret was in when the detective interviewed her. Therefore, it should be an exception to the hearsay rule, even though she was denying those statements now. The detective should be able to testify about those statements.

  The defense argued that it was not an exception. The defense argued that even if it was an exception, the court had its best evidence before it in the form of Margaret Thompson’s direct testimony. And, of course, the defense argued that the detective was lying about Margaret’s statement in order to bolster an already weak case against his most assuredly innocent client.

  The judge sided with the defense.

  Sandy swallowed the last of the diet Coke. He crushed the can and slid it into the plastic garbage bag on the floor of his passenger side.

  With no victim willing to testify that there was a robbery, theft, threat or rape, the prosecution had virtually no case. Collins had been smart enough to hold onto the jewelry and not to pawn any of it, so there was no corroborative evidence. That left the prosecutor no choice but to drop the case.

  Collins went free, having served only eleven days in jail awaiting the pre-trial hearing in which the prosecutor’s motion to admit detective’s testimony regarding Margaret’s statements was denied.

  Sandy knew that, if he were smart, Collins would have held onto the Thompson jewelry for a while yet. The detective might hang onto this case out of frustration. He might keep checking pawn records, or try to work on the victim to reconsider. Eventually, though, other cases would take priority. This one would get filed away as one of life’s many unfortunate injustices.

  And Collins would get away with it.

  Hell, he might even go back and see Margaret again.

  Except that Sandy knew he wouldn’t.

  Sandy remembered sifting through the Collins file at the office. All of the sins were catalogued on his rap sheet, lit up by the kerosene lamp for Sandy to see as he sat at the old battered desk with an open drawer. They’d filled one drawer with files and were deep into the second now. While Sandy never felt any joy at the time over how they solved those problems, a sense of righteous satisfaction always set in about six months or a year later. That was when he’d think about how justice had been visited upon the child molesters, the rapists, the murderers. It didn’t matter to him how they were gone, just that they were.

  When he read through the catalog of Troy Collins’ misdeeds, he could feel the seeds of that satisfaction being planted. He knew what would make those seeds sprout
and grow.

  The Keeper didn’t leave anything to chance. He held the Collins file for almost a year before sending it. He made sure to track several pawned jewelry items that belonged to Margaret Thompson back to Collins. Given his history of robbery and sexual offenses, the detective’s investigation on the case and the pawned jewelry, The Keeper was sure Collins was a worthwhile target. He was guilty. He got away with it and he shouldn’t have.

  Sandy agreed.

  So he sat in his Mazda, sipping his diet Coke, watching. All around him, downtown Spokane bustled with car and foot traffic. Saturday night here was like Saturday night everywhere. Plenty of people were out, drinking and hoping to get lucky. They glided past Sandy in his car, most of them not even noticing him through the slightly tinted windows.

  Midnight came and went. Sandy celebrated by eating a Snicker’s bar and a banana. He stuffed the wrapper and the peel into his plastic garbage bag while keeping his eyes fixed on the bar door up the street.

  At one-oh-five, he was rewarded for his patience. Troy Collins stumbled out of bar and to his truck. Sandy watched him make his way to the truck door, gauging how drunk he might be. He wanted him impaired but not too drunk. A little drunk took away any physical or mental advantage Troy might have. Too much drunk kept the man from feeling any fear.

  Collins climbed into the truck, started it up, revved the engine three times and then roasted the tires as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Don’t call so much attention to yourself,” Sandy muttered. “I don’t want you getting grabbed up for a deuce tonight.”

  That would be just his luck. The perfect night to close out this case, except for the happy asshole of a target is driving a huge orange truck with big tires. What were the chances a patrol cop would spot him driving like an idiot, pull him over and hook him up for driving under the influence?

  The odds were pretty good, Sandy thought. But he didn’t think it was going to happen. Tonight felt lucky.

  It didn’t take long to figure out that Collins was heading home. The local ladies must have been immune to his charms, Sandy thought. He followed the garish truck up Monroe, across the bridge that traversed the Spokane River and out of the downtown area. Collins drove north until he reached Chelan Avenue, where the neighborhood turned residential.

  Sandy drove past Chelan, up a block and circled around. He knew which house belonged to Collins. It was one of only two on the block that looked like a dump. Most of the others were kept up with well-manicured lawns and decent folk. He guessed the other dive was a rental, but his records showed that Collins owned his home. He’d inherited it from his mother when she died three years ago, and she’d owned it free and clear.

  Sandy parked on Lincoln, just around the corner from Chelan. He waited. He’d let Collins get inside. If the man’s habits held, he’d stagger into the kitchen for another beer, then flop onto the couch to watch television. Sandy wasn’t sure what he watched but he guessed it wasn’t anything on the History Channel.

  If Collins was too drunk, he’d stagger into the bedroom and go straight to bed. Other than being too hammered from drinking, he really didn’t have any other reason to crash, since he didn’t have a job to go to in the morning.

  If he went to bed, he was too drunk.

  But if he watched television…

  Sandy waited patiently for fifteen minutes. Once the time had passed, he checked to make sure his dome light was turned off, then exited the car. He tucked his 1911 .45 ACP Peacemaker into his belt. From behind the driver’s seat, he removed a small cloth bag containing everything he needed for the job.

  Walking halfway up the street and turning down the alley, Sandy maintained a casual pace. It wasn’t commonplace for someone to be walking around this late at night, but it wasn’t such a strange thing that he expected anyone to call the police about it. Particularly if the person walking around didn’t seem suspicious. So Sandy didn’t sneak or creep or try not to be seen. He just walked.

  The backyard of Collins’ house didn’t have a gate or a fence. The neighbors on both sides had six foot fences, though. Sandy figured that was to separate themselves from Collins. He couldn’t say he blamed them.

  There was no dog to worry about. He didn’t figure Collins was responsible enough for a pet. There was only some miscellaneous junk scattered around the long grass. Sandy wended his way through the yard and to the back door. He could see a flickering light through the kitchen window to the left of the door and the muted sound of the television told him everything he needed to know.

  Collins was not too drunk.

  Tonight was lucky.

  Sandy stopped at the door. He’d come by earlier, just after dark, and used his lock pick to pop open the lock. Unless Collins was diligent about home security, it should still be unlocked.

  He grasped it with his left hand and turned gently. The knob twisted easily in his grip. He eased the door forward. The noise from the television increased in volume. He slipped inside and closed the door behind himself.

  The sound of a laugh track from whatever sitcom Collins was watching filled the quiet house. Sandy listened carefully while he withdrew a suppressor from his bag and screwed it onto his .45. He heard no movement upstairs or anywhere else in the house. Collins was alone.

  His .45 in one hand and his bag in the other, Sandy walked slowly through the kitchen and toward the living room. He timed his steps to the outbursts of canned laughter from the television. When he reached the doorway of the living room, he took stock of the situation. The front curtains were drawn. He could see the front door from where he stood and it was closed. Collins sat on the couch, staring at the TV like a zombie, absently rubbing his crotch.

  Sandy stepped into the room and leveled the .45 at Collins.

  Collins detected the movement and turned to look. When he saw the gun pointed at him, his jaw dropped in surprise and horror. The can of Keystone Light slipped from his fingers. It bounced off the small coffee table and fell to the carpet, where liquid gushed out in a foam. He started making grunting noises. Sandy knew from experience that after about five of those, most people found their voice and started screaming.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said in low, powerful tones. “If you start screaming, then I will put a bullet in your skull. You hear me?”

  Almost comically, Collins’ mouth flapped shut.

  Definitely not too drunk, Sandy thought.

  “Good,” Sandy said. “Now, I want you to listen carefully to me, Troy. If you do that, you just might live tonight. How’s that sound?”

  Collins nodded furiously.

  “Good,” Sandy repeated. “Here’s how it is going to work. I know you took some jewelry from a woman named Margaret Thompson almost a year ago.”

  Collins started to shake his head in denial, but Sandy cut him off.

  “Don’t waste time lying to me, Troy. You and I both know it happened. I’m not the cops, so I don’t have to worry about proving it. If you lie to me, I’ll just shoot you in the liver. You won’t die right away, but you’ll eventually bleed out and it won’t matter if they send an ambulance and run you to the emergency room.” Sandy waggled the .45. “You ever see what one of these can do to a liver? It rips it to shreds. Nothing a doctor can do.”

  Troy Collins stopped shaking his head. His face seemed a shade whiter to Sandy than before he’d stepped into the room.

  “Now, I know you still have some of the jewelry left. I’ve come to get it for Mrs. Thompson. Where is it?”

  Collins paused. Sandy stepped forward and angled the gun toward his mid-section.

  “Okay, okay!” shouted Collins.

  “Quietly,” Sandy growled at him.

  “Okay,” Collins whispered. “It’s in the bathroom. There’s a loose tile in the corner by the bathtub. I keep some stuff in there. There might be some of hers left.”

  “Up,” Sandy said.

  “Huh?”

  “Up,” he ordered a second time. “To the bathroom.”<
br />
  Collins rose slowly. Some of the fear and surprise had begun to leave his eyes. Sandy noticed the change. He thought about it for a moment, then made his decision.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Sit back down.”

  Collins shrugged and lowered himself back onto the couch. “Look,” he started to say.

  “No,” Sandy said, “you need to listen to me. I’m going to tell you how it’s going to be.” He reached into his bag and removed a slender bladed hunting knife. He placed it on the table in front of Collins.

  “What’s that?” Collins asked.

  “A knife,” Sandy said matter-of-factly. “More accurately, it is a Spencer brand hunting knife. What you’re going to do is pick up that knife. You’re going to take it firmly in your right hand, insert it into your left wrist and pull it towards you.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t cut across the wrist,” Sandy instructed. “Cut laterally. The deeper the cut, the faster you’ll bleed out.”

  Collins shook his head. “No fucking way.”

  “Yes fucking way.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe,” Sandy said, “but I’m the one with a .45 pointed at you right now. And if you don’t do as I ask, things are going to get messy. I’m talking about kneecaps getting blown apart. I’m talking about groin shots. I’m talking about slow, painful bleed-outs.”

  Collins made small shakes with his head, stammering. “N-n-no…”

  “You are dead either way, Troy,” Sandy said coldly. “The knife makes for a relatively painless exit. It hurts a little when you make the cut, but then you just get tired and sleepy and you pass out. That’s the easy way.” He waggled the gun again. “The hard way is much…well, it’s much harder. Lots of pain.”

  “Please,” Collins said, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to die.”

  Sandy felt a small surge of gratitude. Collins wasn’t arguing anymore. Just begging. And once the begging began, surrender wasn’t far behind.

  “I’ll do anything you want,” Collins sobbed. “I’ll give you all my money. Everything.”