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

by Thomas Scott

  Two hours later, things started to happen. All six men were brought in at roughly the same time. They were each isolated in their own holding cell, and Agent Martin made sure that each man saw everyone else as they were brought in. Once everyone was locked down, Martin, Ross, and Rosencrantz took them one at a time to an interview room, where they made them wait…and sweat, handcuffed to a D-ring bolted to the table.

  Each interview was conducted exactly the same way. Martin and Ross and Rosencrantz would eventually walk in. Martin—who was dressed in full DEA gear, vest and all—was an intimidating sight. She would sit across from the detainee, explain the situation, and tell him what they wanted. If he cooperated by providing good, verifiable information, he would be released later in the evening and sent on his way. If he didn’t, he’d be stuck in a legal nightmare of his own making, one that would lead to arrest, indictment, bail bondsmen, court fees, and jail time.

  Of the six, two told them to sexually pleasure themselves and asked for a lawyer. Another asked for a lawyer without being vulgar, but three of them—all as nervous as purse dogs—gave them the names and locations of where they got their drugs. All three names were different. Fresh warrants were cut for those three, and ninety minutes later they were brought in and the process repeated itself.

  Then things got interesting. Martin was actually smiling by the time they were done. “Three dealers and they all gave the same name: Neil Witlock.” She slapped Rosencrantz on the thigh and said, “This is how it works.” Then she looked at Ross and said, “See? Only three rungs. The end-users, the dealers, and one wholesaler.”

  “If it’s our guy,” Ross said, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

  “It’s our guy. I promise you that.” When she checked with one of the sheriff’s deputies, he ran the name and came up with three people named Neil Witlock that lived in the county. He gave the list to Martin and said, “Probably grandfather, father, and son.”

  Ross looked at the list and said, “Based on their ages, we can probably rule out grandpa. But both the father and son—if that’s what they are—fall into the right age bracket.” He took out his phone and called Becky.

  “Making any progress?” Becky asked.

  “Yep. Need your skills, though. We’re looking at two guys, both named Neil Witlock. We’re guessing father and son. There’s a third, but his age probably takes him out of the equation. Need to know if the other two are related and if they have priors anywhere in the state. The quicker the better.”

  Becky didn’t waste any time. “I’ll call you right back.”

  Fifteen minutes she was on the line again. Ross put her on speaker so Rosencrantz and Martin could hear. “The two Witlock’s are related, and you’re right…they are father and son. The father is squeaky clean. So is grandpa, by the way.”

  “And the son?” Rosencrantz said.

  “He’s been arrested, but never convicted. Once for minor possession where he walked because of procedural errors, and once for suspicion of drunk driving. He skated on the drunk charge because he refused to take a Breathalyzer test, and by the time they drew his blood, he came in just under the legal limit.”

  “Where does he work?” Martin asked.

  “He doesn’t. There’s no record of work going back over the last six years. No unemployment, no taxes filed, nothing.”

  Martin clapped her hands together. “That’s our guy.”

  “It sure looks that way,” Becky said. “He has two houses. One in New Paris, and one in Roseburg. The Roseburg looks like an inheritance. Taxes, mortgage, and insurance payments are current and up to date. He’s never been married, and there’s no other record of Witlocks anywhere in the database, so probably no kids.”

  “Definitely our guy,” Ross said. “We’ve got the New Paris address. It’s actually not that far from where we are right now. Email me the Roseburg address, will you?”

  “You got it.” Then Becky was gone.

  Virgil and Murton and Ron Miles tracked down the assholes and got exactly nowhere. “Most of them weren’t even assholes,” Murton said. “They looked like guys who simply didn’t have a ride home from the bar. What’d we have? Six DUIs and two petty thefts? That’s nothing. That’s two hours on a Saturday night up in Indy.”

  “If that,” Miles said.

  Virgil looked at them both and said, “I think that one older guy, uh, Wilbur Little, might have been lying about something. Did you notice how he wouldn’t look us in the eye?”

  “I did notice that,” Murton said. “I also noticed he was half plowed. He was one of the DUIs, wasn’t he?”

  Virgil nodded. “Yeah. Still felt like we didn’t get the whole story though.”

  “Want to take another crack at him?” Murton asked.

  Virgil looked away in thought for a few seconds. “Maybe. But not tonight. Let’s wait and see what the sector searches come up with. Like you said, he might have simply been drunk.”

  “Oh, he was definitely drunk,” Miles said. “I’m still a little woozy from the fumes coming out of his mouth.” Then, “Are you guys going to crash at the Esser house with me tonight?”

  Virgil and Murton looked at each other. “Hadn’t really thought about it,” Virgil said. “But unless Murt has any objections, I think we’ll head back. It’s only an hour or so.”

  “I’m good with going home,” Murton said.

  “Fine with me,” Miles said. “Just wanted you to know you could if you needed to.”

  Virgil clapped Miles on the back, and said, “Thanks Ron. We’ll see you tomorrow. You going to wrap it up for the night?”

  Miles shook his head. “Not just yet. Got the night shift coming in. Gotta go over the whole thing with them.”

  “We could stay if you like,” Murton said. “The day guys might not have been as cooperative if we hadn’t been there.”

  “No, go ahead and take off. I’ve got this.”

  Virgil and Murton stood to leave, then Miles said, “It’s good to be working together again, isn’t it?”

  Virgil smiled. “It sure is, Ron. Have a good night.” Then he and Murton left the building, climbed into Virgil’s truck, and headed for home.

  Since Ross and Rosencrantz and Martin all felt they’d reached the top rung of the ladder with Neil Witlock—the man who could lead them to Dakota and Hawk—they decided to hit him fast and hard. The Elkhart County SWAT team was called in, everyone got briefed by Martin who had satellite images of Witlock’s home, pulled from Google Earth.

  “He’s fairly well isolated out there. It looks like his house sits almost a half-mile off the road, which means if he’s paying attention, he’ll see us coming. We’ve got to get to him before he has a chance to make any calls because if he warns off Hawk and Dakota, and he doesn’t have any product on him, we won’t be able to hold him very long. And once he’s out, all it will take is one phone call and we’ll lose the thread.”

  The SWAT commander, a no-nonsense ex-military special forces soldier, said, “Do you have any intel on his personal life? Married, kids, like that?”

  “The information we have is there are no children, and he’s never been married,” Ross said. “Might be a girlfriend though.”

  “Girlfriends usually aren’t a problem,” the SWAT commander said. “Unless they’re biters. The biters piss me off.”

  “It’s the phones that bother me,” Martin added.

  “I can take care of that,” Rosencrantz said. He called Becky back and said, “Did you get Witlock’s phones?”

  “I did,” Becky said. “He’s got a landline, and cell service with Verizon.”

  “How long to kill them both?”

  Becky did some quick calculations in her head, then said, “If I start right now, I could have them both down in about twenty minutes. The landline might be a problem though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t kill just one line. I’ll have to isolate the entire grid in that area. If someone happens to have a need to call 911
, they won’t be able to do it unless they have a cell phone.”

  “Hold on a second, Becks.” Rosencrantz turned to the room and repeated what Becky had just told him.

  “Tell her to do it,” Martin said. “As soon as we’ve got him, she can restore the grid. Besides, who doesn’t have a cell phone? I think it’s worth the risk.”

  Rosencrantz told Becky to do it, then to call him back when it was done. “We don’t want to move until we’re sure he can’t call out.”

  Becky told him she would and got to work.

  The SWAT commander looked at Ross and Rosencrantz and Martin. “We do this for a living. You guys don’t. You can follow, but let us do the entry. Once we’ve got him, he’ll be all yours. But until then, let the professionals handle the takedown.”

  Ross, who was a former SWAT team member before joining the MCU, said, “I did special weapons and tactics down in Indy for about five years. Like to ride with you if you’ll have me.”

  The SWAT commander shook his head. “Can’t do it, youngster. Five years is a long time to be out of the entry and takedown game. Plus our tactics are probably a little different from yours. I’ve got a tight team here and we know what we’re doing. Let us do our job, and then you can do yours.”

  Ross nodded, his disappointment evident, but he knew it’d do no good to argue his point, so he stayed quiet.

  Rosencrantz had a thought. “What if he’s not home?” Everyone looked at each other for a few seconds, then Ross made a quick call to Becky and said, “Did you drop the grid yet?”

  “No, but I’m close, why?”

  “Because we need to make a call to his landline to see if he’s home.”

  Becky read the number off to him and said, “Make it quick. I’m almost there.”

  “Hold on,” Ross said. He grabbed a pen and wrote the number down on a scrap of paper. “Stay on the line with me, Becks. We’ll know in about thirty seconds.” He gave Rosencrantz the number, who punched it into his own phone.

  When Witlock answered, Rosencrantz said, “Yeah, Bill, it’s Frank. Listen, I’m going to be late for work tomorrow. The kid has another ear infection and I’ve got to get him over to the doc—”

  “Sorry about your kid, buddy,” Witlock said. “But you’ve got the wrong number.”

  “Ah shit…sorry to bother you, man,” Rosencrantz said. Then he hung up. He turned to the room and said, “He’s home. For now anyway.”

  “Okay Becky,” Ross said. “Kill the grid.”

  “You got it.”

  Martin looked at the men in the room and said, “Let’s go.” Then to the SWAT guys: “Remember, we need him alive. Do not shoot to kill, you know, unless you have to. But even then, don’t.”

  They went hard out of Goshen, a convoy of county cop cars, Ross and Rosencrantz riding with Martin in her vehicle, and the SWAT team in their own truck. They all bailed off on a secondary road that angled just to the southeast of New Paris, and when they were one mile out, Becky called and said the grid was down. Martin radioed the SWAT commander and told him he was good to go.

  The SWAT vehicle looked like something out of a movie, an up-armored, flat black box on wheels, its diesel engine sounding like a tank. When they were a half-mile away from Witlock’s drive, the vehicle pulled over and the SWAT team members piled out and took up positions on the platforms along both sides of the vehicle, their weapons tight across their bodies, their hands wrapped around the steel bars near the top of the box. Once everyone was in place, the truck began its roll.

  They turned into the driveway, and as soon as they did, the entire exterior of the house lit up. “Looks like he’s got sensors,” Martin said. “He knows we’re coming.”

  “I hope he doesn’t have dogs,” Rosencrantz said. “I hate it when they have dogs.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Thirty seconds later the SWAT team members jumped from the vehicle and surrounded the house. Then everything suddenly got slow and quiet. There were no shouts, or flash bangs, or forced entry, because Neil Witlock opened the front door, and came out shirtless, his hands held out to his sides. He spun a slow full circle to show he wasn’t armed, then got on his knees, placed his hands on his head, and waited.

  The SWAT guys, a little amped up, took him the rest of the way down—maybe harder than they needed to—and got the cuffs on him.

  Ross and Rosencrantz and Martin ran up to the house. Rosencrantz looked at Witlock and said, “Who else is inside?”

  “No one. I live alone.” Then, “I hope your kid’s ear infection clears up…Frank. Jesus, you guys think I’m an idiot?” He said it with a smile.

  The SWAT commander looked at his men and said, “Clear it.”

  Ten minutes later it was done. The house was empty, as Witlock had said, and the county guys began to search the premises. When Martin walked back to where Witlock was sitting, she looked at him and read him his rights. When she was finished with that, she said, “We thought you were going to put up a fight.”

  Witlock looked her right in the eye and said, “Why would I? So the national guard here could shoot the place up? Besides, I know how you guys work. You don’t want me, do you? You want the guys who are making the stuff. Get me the right deal, and I can take you to them. Get me the wrong deal, and I’ll get a lawyer. But I’ll tell you this: You’re not going to find any drugs in my house, on my property, or in my system.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” Martin said. They loaded him in the back of one of the county squad cars and told the deputy to take him back to a holding cell. Then she grabbed the deputy by the arm, and said, “He does not, under any circumstances get a phone call.”

  Ross and Rosencrantz and Martin hung around for a few minutes, looking through the house, but when it was clear that they weren’t going to find a sign that read, ‘Secret drug stash here,’ with a flashing arrow directing them to said stash, they decided to leave and let the county do their thing. The SWAT team was stripping out of their gear, and when the commander walked over, Martin thanked him for his help.

  “Sort of a letdown. I expected a fight.”

  Martin shrugged. “He knows the system. Knows how the DEA works. I’m not all that surprised. We see it from time to time.”

  “Speaking of time, will he get any?”

  Martin shook her head. “It depends on what the search turns up, but I doubt it. Unless the county guys find two kilos or something in there, he’ll walk, especially if he gives us what we want.”

  Witlock did indeed give them what they wanted, but he made them work for it. The four of them were sitting in an interview room at the sheriff’s station, and Witlock was so calm and relaxed, Martin knew playing hardball wasn’t going to work.

  “Here’s the thing, Agent Martin,” Witlock said. “I know you want to threaten me with lots of jail time, and dangle suspicion of distribution charges, probably conspiracy of some sort because you guys always throw that in—just like you do with resisting arrest—and I’m sure you’ve got people in here somewhere right now who have given you my name.”

  Martin nodded. “We do. Three of them to be exact. Each and every one of them gave us your name specifically.”

  Witlock put a feigned look of shock on his face. “Oh my God, you’ve got three people who have accused me of some illegal activities. I’ll bet they’re all stellar citizens, aren’t they? Make great witnesses at a trial.”

  Ross shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, so you’re streetwise. Good for you. How about we cut the crap and get to it? You know what we need, you know what we have on you, so the only real question is, are you going to cooperate, or not?”

  Witlock considered Ross’s statement for a few seconds. “It’s not the only real question, though, is it? The fact of the matter is this: You don’t have anything on me. As I previously told Agent Martin here, there are no drugs at my house, on my property, or in my system. You’ve embarrassed yourselves by hauling me down here and threatening me with all sorts of legal troubles based on noth
ing more than the word of a few dope addicts. The real question, Detective Ross, is what are we going to do about all that? Wait, wait, don’t answer, because I’ve got an idea.”

  Ross rolled his eyes and said, “Oh please…do tell.”

  Witlock suddenly got serious. “I may or may not have information regarding a major meth supplier running drugs up to this area. How I came to know about this theoretical information could come back and bite me, again, if I know anything at all. But if I did tell you anything, I would need a deal, in writing, that gives me full immunity against all charges from any agency—federal, state, or local—before I tell you what I may or may not know.”

  Rosencrantz clicked his fingernails on the table. “If you’re so innocent, why do you need an immunity deal?”

  “That does seem to be the sticky part of the whole thing, doesn’t it?” Witlock said. “But what you have to ask yourselves is this: If you put a deal in writing and it turns out I don’t know anything, what have you lost? There’s no downside for you, except the minor embarrassment of hauling me out of my home and conducting a search of my premises that will reveal absolutely nothing. So, put it in writing, and let’s see where it goes. Otherwise, we can get the lawyers involved, and who really wants that kind of headache?”

  Martin gave him a long hard stare. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  When they stood to leave, Witlock said, “Could I possibly get a bottle of water or a Diet Coke?”

  No one answered him.

  Ross and Rosencrantz and Martin stepped out into the hall and away from the interview room. “You gonna put it in writing?” Rosencrantz asked.