State of Killers: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series Book 11)

by Thomas Scott

“So, a fortunate few of my people get to live at this center and learn the ways of the white man who takes from the land instead of giving back. Do I have that right, Detective?”

  Virgil knew if he wasn’t completely honest with Longhorn, he probably wouldn’t get the information he needed. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose you do, sir. But there’s more than one way to take from the land, isn’t there?”

  Longhorn ignored Virgil’s question and said, “As the former owner of this land—sacred land, as I understand it—you and your Kentucky partner still own the mineral rights, do you not?”

  Virgil was starting to sweat. “Yes sir, we do. It’s how we fund the research and provide for the Native Americans who live, work, and receive an education there.”

  Stronghill looked at Longhorn, a smile on his face, and said, “Are you going to bust his balls all afternoon Uncle, or are you going to let the man relax?”

  Longhorn laughed, looked at Virgil, and said, “My people…we are set in our ways, but I can tell you this, Detective: The ones who are fortunate enough to participate in the program you and your people have provided are grateful, as am I. How can I help you?”

  Virgil audibly exhaled. Then, together he and Murton spent the next thirty minutes giving Longhorn as much information as they could regarding the case.

  Longhorn listened without interrupting, and when they were done, he said, “So you’ve got a group with enough pills to get half your state high as a kite, five people dead, one in jail, and the DEA breathing down your neck.”

  “That about says it,” Virgil said.

  “Sounds like maybe you guys are the ones living on the Rez.”

  “It does feel that way sometimes,” Murton said. “No disrespect.”

  “None taken. What do you want from me?”

  “In a word, access. We’d like everything you have on two individuals. Brian Kono, and Chase Dakota. Kono is already dead, but Dakota is still out there. We believe that he, and another as yet unidentified person are behind both the killings and the theft of the drugs.”

  Longhorn shook his head. “Those two…Kono and Dakota…do you know how hard it is to get kicked off the Rez? Don’t answer that, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty damned hard. We’ve busted them any number of times, everything from drunk and disorderly to drug trafficking, and auto theft.”

  “Sounds like our guys,” Murton said.

  The chief got up and walked over to one of the file cabinets along the wall and pulled open a drawer. He thumbed through the files for a moment, then pulled out three separate folders before returning to his desk. He separated one of the folders from the rest. He passed the other two to Virgil and Murton. “These are copies of Kono’s and Dakota’s arrest records from here on the Rez,” Longhorn said. “You can take them with you. I’m not sure how much good they’ll do you, but at least you’ll have a record of their priors if you get Dakota in custody. I guess Kono’s isn’t all that important at this point.”

  “It does help show intent, though,” Virgil said. “Thank you, Chief.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Murton leaned forward slightly and looked at the third folder. “Is that connected to any of this?”

  “That would be up to you to decide,” Longhorn said. “Kono and Dakota used to run with a guy named Johnny Hawk. He left the Rez along with a group of people a couple of years ago and none of them ever returned.”

  “Hawk. Why does that name sound familiar?” Virgil said.

  “I cannot answer that, Detective,” Longhorn said. “It is a common Native American name. It’s also the name of a woodland bird with a long tail, a large wingspan, and a high level of visual acuity.” The chief laughed at his own joke.

  Murton took out his phone and called Becky. “Hey, it’s me. Can you pull up a file real quick?”

  “Sure. Which one?”

  “The Freedom incident. I’d like the names of everyone who was captured or killed.”

  “Okay,” Becky said. “Text it to you?”

  “That’ll work,” Murton said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Less than a minute later, Murton’s phone dinged at him. He scrolled through the file and when he found what he was looking for, he asked Longhorn a question. “Does Johnny Hawk have any relatives here?”

  Longhorn brought his computer to life and spent a couple of minutes scrolling through a list of names for everyone who lived on the reservation. When he was finished, he looked at Murton and said, “No, not here. At least not anymore. He has a cousin, Billy Hawk, who left here years ago. I think I heard he had a job at a salvage yard or something.”

  “That’s it,” Virgil said to Murton. Then to Longhorn: “Billy Hawk is dead, Chief.”

  The chief shook his head and said, “I’m not surprised. Nothing surprises me very much anymore, especially in this job.”

  They all sat quietly with that statement for a few seconds, then the Chief’s radio squawked at him. He answered the call, then looked at everyone and said, “If there’s nothing else? Duty calls.”

  Virgil shook his head. “No, that’s all Chief. You’ve been a tremendous help. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Everyone stood, then Longhorn looked at Virgil and Murton and said, “If you would have simply had Tony call, I could have faxed that paperwork to you.”

  Virgil and Murton both turned and looked at Stronghill. “What? You asked for my help and you got it. Plus, I wanted to see my uncle.”

  Virgil shook his head, and they all walked back outside. As they were getting ready to board the helicopter, Longhorn touched eyes with Stronghill and said, “Tell Patty I said hello.” Then he looked at Virgil and said, “Mac too.”

  Virgil pulled his chin in slightly and said, “You know the governor?”

  “Yes. He and Patty, along with Mr. Said, gave me a private tour of the cultural center upon its completion.”

  Virgil stuck his tongue in his cheek, then said, “Boy, you really know how to sweat a guy.”

  Once they were back on board the helicopter, Cool looked at Virgil and said, “Where to?”

  “Elkhart airport,” Virgil said.

  “You got it, Jonesy. And before you ask, a little over an hour.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  “Right,” Cool said, his voice dry. “Buckle up now.”

  Cool got them airborne and Virgil and Murton, along with Stronghill discussed the information they’d gotten from Longhorn. “It really isn’t much more than we already had,” Murton said. “Sort of feels like a wasted trip.”

  “You know how it goes, Murt,” Virgil said. “If we can get our hands on these guys, it will help show intent along with character and state of mind.”

  “I wonder who it was that killed Billy Hawk out at the salvage yard?” Stronghill said.

  Murton was looking at the information Becky had sent him earlier. “According to the file, Ross saw him first, and that was before any of the heavy gunfire had started. My guess is it was the gun runners from Gary.”

  Virgil nodded. “Probably. Doesn’t seem to matter at this point. What we need is a way to find his cousin Johnny, and this Dakota guy.”

  “Johnny Hawk was the first to leave the cultural center,” Stronghill said. “This was over a month ago. Patty said he walked into her office one day and simply quit.”

  Virgil looked at Stronghill and said, “Do you have a file on this guy? Johnny Hawk?”

  Stronghill nodded at him. “Yeah, but I have to tell you, there isn’t much to see. I looked at it just the other day when more people started leaving without notice, and other than a few questionable activities, there really isn’t anything. In fact, if I’m being honest with you, he’s the type we look for to live and work at the center.”

  That sort of surprised Virgil. “Why? I’d think you’d want the best of the best.”

  “It’s not as unusual as you think. The best of the best as you call them are the ones who want to stay on t
he Rez as a way of life. The, mmm, troubled ones, let’s call them, are the ones we want to try to turn around. We give them options they’ve never had before.”

  Virgil said, “Huh.” Then to Cool, “Hey Rich, can you call ahead and get us a rental car?”

  Cool nodded without turning around. “As soon as we get a little closer. Still out of radio range.”

  “Get a good one, like a big SUV or something. I’m not going to drive around in that shitty little lime green Kia again.”

  Dakota was still about thirty miles from Roseburg, with a load of meth in the back of the van, and the shotgun riding shotgun next to him in the front. What Dakota didn’t know was less than two hours ago, an Amber Alert had been issued by the state police for a missing eight-year-old autistic girl, presumably abducted by her father after a nasty divorce that had been finalized over a year ago. The mother of the young girl had been granted full custody, and the father was allowed visitation one day a week, and only then for three hours.

  When the father didn’t get his daughter back to her mother at the proper time, she tried to call. When the phone went unanswered, the mother called the police, calmly explaining the situation, emphasizing that her daughter suffered from autism, wasn’t able to speak or tell time, and was most certainly unaware that she had in all likelihood been abducted by her own father. An hour later, the alert went out. White panel van, male driver, license plate unknown.

  Dakota had done everything right. He came to full and complete stops at every intersection. He kept his speed at or just under the limit. He dutifully used his turn signals, and never once broke any of the traffic laws. That’s why he couldn’t understand the flashing red and blue lights of the county cop riding his rear bumper. He turned his blinkers on and pulled over along the side of the road. There were no other cars in sight. He watched the cop in his rearview mirror. Dakota couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like the cop had gotten out of his car much too quickly to have called in his plates. He never once appeared to use his microphone.

  When the cop opened the door of his squad car, he instinctively glanced behind his cruiser to make sure no other vehicles were coming in his direction. The cop knew from his training that most police officers who were killed during traffic stops didn’t get shot or stabbed or beaten to death. They got killed by getting run over while standing in the road asking to see ID, registration, and proof of insurance.

  Dakota saw the cop turn and look behind him and when he did, he grabbed the pistol-grip shotgun and let it rest on his lap, a shell already jacked into the chamber, his finger taking the slack out of the trigger. He watched the cop approach in the door’s mirror, and when he stepped into view, Dakota brought the gun up and fired at almost point-blank range, right in the cop’s face.

  Then he dropped the van in gear and took off as fast as he dared, the traffic laws no longer his biggest concern. His ears rang from the blast of the shotgun, and his heart was beating so fast he thought he might end up having a stroke. He pulled the van over, slipped into his gloves, unloaded the shotgun, then quickly wiped it down before he flung it end over end into the weeds off the side of the road. He threw the remaining shells in the other direction. Twenty minutes later he turned into the drive of his buddy’s now dead aunt’s old house and parked in back, out of sight.

  When they touched down at the Elkhart Municipal Airport, Virgil noticed a black SUV waiting on the ramp. He looked at Cool and said, “That our ride?”

  “Should be,” Cool said. “Let me go sign for it and we’ll be on our way.”

  “You coming along this time?” Virgil said.

  “You better believe it. Last time we were here I almost died. Of boredom. Be right back.”

  Cool went in and signed for the car, then tossed Virgil the keys. “I’ll let you haul me around for a while. It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

  They all climbed into the SUV, and Virgil programmed the Nav unit to take them to the RV plant where Dakota and Kono had worked. “It’s getting kinda late,” Murton said. “I hope they’re still open.”

  “Me too,” Cool said from the back seat. Then he leaned forward, tapped Virgil on the shoulder, and said, “How long?”

  Virgil shot him a backhanded bone, then pointed to the Nav unit. “Nice try. It says how long right there on the screen.”

  “I can’t see it from back here. How long now?”

  “Very funny,” Virgil said. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Why are we going so slow?” Cool asked.

  “Because as a mostly law-abiding citizen, I’m driving the speed limit.”

  “I need the speed limit plus ten,” Cool said.

  Stronghill looked at Murton and said, “Is it always like this?”

  Murton nodded, his face serious. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “How long now?” Cool said again.

  “Don’t make me pull this thing over. I will let you out.”

  Cool laughed. “At which point I’ll call an Uber, get a ride back to the airport, and fly home all by myself. Then you guys can drive back to Indy.” When no one said anything, he finished with, “Are we almost there yet…Grandpa? I have to pee.”

  Dakota and his buddy made the exchange in no more than ten minutes. When they were finished, his buddy looked at him and said, “You okay, man? You look a little green around the gills.”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Hauling this stuff around makes me nervous as shit, is all.”

  “It is a little risky, but if you follow the speed limit and all that, it usually goes okay. I’ve never had any problems.”

  Good for you, Dakota thought.

  “What was that?”

  “I said, that’s good. Listen, I’m going to head back. When do you want the next batch?”

  “Give me a week or so. If you guys can crank it out this fast, I’m going to need to find more dealers.”

  “I thought you did the dealing,” Dakota said.

  “I do some. But that’s where the real risk is…dealing with individual buyers at the street level. I’d rather make a little less and sell wholesale, than risk the entire operation for a few extra bucks.”

  “Sort of like we’re doing,” Dakota said.

  “Yup. Anyway, I’ll call you in a few days and we’ll set something up.”

  “Sounds good.” Dakota got back in the van and drove off. A few minutes later he was on the highway and headed back south, lost in a sea of traffic, white vans everywhere, going in both directions.

  Less than an hour later, the state police and the Grant County sheriff’s department had a white panel van surrounded at a filling station, the male occupant refusing to comply with the officer’s commands, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was afraid to leave his daughter alone. When he decided his actions were doing more harm than good, he finally got out. He knew he was late, but his phone had died, and the flat tire had cost him the time he was supposed to be spending with his daughter. When he reached around behind his back to pull out his wallet, the county cops who’d just lost one of their own, opened up on him.

  Inside the van, a little girl screamed.

  When Virgil turned into the RV plant’s parking lot, they discovered the plant had already shut down for the day. When they walked up to the entrance of the corporate offices, the door was locked. As they were walking back to the SUV, a security guard in a golf cart pulled up next to them. “Help you guys?”

  Everyone pulled out their badges, except Cool who was in full uniform. “We’re Detectives with the state,” Virgil said. “We were hoping to speak with the head of Human Resources, and maybe your shop foreman or supervisor or whatever their title is.”

  “I’m afraid everyone is gone for the day, Detective. Production starts back up at six tomorrow morning.”

  Everybody sort of stared at nothing for a few seconds, then the security guard said, “Something going on?”

  “Yeah, but it’s mostly background work at the moment. We need to ask some questions about a couple
of guys who used to work here. You don’t happen to know any of the production crew, do you?”

  The guard shook his head. “Nope. I’m just the overnight security watch. It’s my job to make sure no one tries to steal a carcass.”

  Murton frowned at him. “Carcass?”

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone calls them…the chassis parked out back. Those buggers are expensive, and from what I hear, pretty easy to hot-wire.”

  They thanked the security guard, then watched as he puttered away. “Now what?” Stronghill said.

  “Either spend the night or fly home, then come back again tomorrow,” Virgil said.

  “Cheaper to stay,” Cool said.

  Virgil didn’t want to spend the night, but he knew Cool was right. “Okay, let’s go see if we can find someplace halfway decent.”

  They climbed into the SUV and everyone pulled out their phones and began Googling hotels in the area. When they found one they all agreed on, Virgil entered the address into the Nav unit and they took off.

  As soon as they’d turned out of the lot, Cool reached up and tapped Virgil on the shoulder, and said, “How long?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Dakota pulled the van around to the back of the barn, Johnny was right there waiting on him, his phone in his hand. “It’s all over the news, man. Was that you?”

  Dakota got out of the van, and said, “If you’re talking about the dead county cop, then yeah, that was me.”

  “What the hell happened, man?” Johnny said.

  Dakota shook his head and turned his palms up. “I don’t know. I was doing everything right. Kept my speed down. Came to complete stops, used my turn signals, the works. Everything was going fine. Hell, I was only about forty minutes away and the next thing I know, I’ve got a county cop riding my ass with his flashers on. I didn’t have a choice.”