by Dan Lawton
Before he died, my father used to get anonymous emails from an unknown informant in regards to the activity of the Zved’s. The sender’s IP address was always untraceable as each message bounced through multiple servers and was unique every time. There was always speculation that it was from someone with inside knowledge of the Zved’s doings, whether a current or former member, or maybe a family member of one of them that wanted to put a stop to it. There was never an indication of motive and the details weren’t always completely accurate, but my father took what he could get. There were rumblings inside the department that someone was playing with him and was intentionally trying to defer him or distract him from other pressing matters, but he never believed it.
When he died, I automatically forwarded all of the emails from his account to mine. Despite the sender always sending the messages anonymously, he or she always used the same subject line, so I forwarded just the messages containing the subject keyword. I still login to his email account monthly without anyone knowing so the account doesn’t automatically close. The IT department is pretty slow around here, so the account should stay safely open for a while. All other messages have been routed to Jack Hearns’ account.
---
It’s lunch time and I’m sitting at my desk enjoying a sandwich. I wash each bite down with a sip of warm bottled water and read through my vague notes about the burglary on Chestnut Street. It was a home invasion that occurred, well after midnight, and the owner scared the perpetrators away with a baseball bat. The two intruders were wearing dark ski masks and gloves. They got away with some electronic video equipment and some sports memorabilia, but that’s about all we know. The owner, a middle-aged bachelor, thinks the intruders may have been black, but he cannot be certain since it was dark. That’s all he remembers about their physical appearances. We found no traces of DNA, no fingerprints, and no unidentified hair follicles at the property. As far as cold cases go, this one is about as cold of a trail as you will find.
My computer screen is dark and on standby, but a gentle chime sounds through the speakers. I flick the mouse to re-engage the screen and wait for the color to come back in the form of pixels. I drop my sandwich on the short stack of case files as I read the subject line: URGENT. I stumble around to find the mouse and quickly open the message. It reads:
7.9 1900 10m
Deciphered, it means the Zved’s next hit is going down on July 9th at 19:00 hours for a purse of ten million dollars. I glance at my calendar, which confirms my uncertainty.
Today is July 9th.
Under normal circumstances I would run into Jack's office and tell him what I've learned, but the thought doesn't even enter my mind today. I'm not going to say anything to anyone yet. Some things are better left unsaid. I pick up my sandwich from the stacked reports and wipe the crumbs away. I munch on the remainder of the crust and stare at the computer screen.
Things are about to get interesting.
---
The following day, I arrive at the office before 8:00 A.M. I turn on my machine and immediately login to the county database. I scan through the police reports from last night until I stumble across something that fits the usual pattern. One report in particular catches my eye. The report was filed shortly after midnight, although the incident notes a time of just after 9:00 P.M. According to the report, last night on Colonel Avenue, a luxury sedan heading west ran off the road and smashed head on into a tree. Speed is expected to be the cause of the accident, but I know better than that.
The driver of the sedan was a veteran Shawnee County attorney, which could explain why someone could have wanted him dead. If I were to dig into his files, I bet I’d find some incriminating information on someone important in there, probably a politician. He was probably getting close to the truth about something they had done, so they hired someone to plug the hole before the water filled up and sank the boat.
It happens all the time.
The incident was made to look like an accident, but trust me when I say it was no accident. To the investigators, it just looks like the driver might have been drunk or fell asleep at the wheel. The report even says as much. If I had to guess, I’d put my money on the coroner’s office finding that alcohol was not the cause of the accident, and that they’ll settle on sleep deprivation being more likely. The accident will be viewed as tragic, and it is, and the Zved’s will walk away without any blood on their hands once again.
And ten million dollars richer.
Unless I get to them.
The Zved’s are professionals and they know what they’re doing. A more likely scenario is that someone from the Zved’s ran him off the road and tried to make it look like an accident. There is money involved here, which means it wasn’t about a personal beef with someone on the inside. Ten million is a lot of money for a contract slaying, so someone important must have had something important to hide. An indictment would have been in the short term I’d imagine, so that’s where the police will start when trying to figure out what really happened.
I spin out of my chair and march down the hall to Jack Hearns’ office. I whip the door open without knocking. Jack is here early, as he surely must have been notified of what happened last night. I startle him, and he nearly spills his coffee all over himself.
“What the hell, Bill?” he says.
“We need to talk.”
“This better not be about that accident last night. The guys on the scene say it was definitely an accident, no foul play. Bill, this shit has got to-”
“That’s not what I’m here about.”
Jack is taken aback. “It’s not? Well, good then. Come on in and sit down.”
I sit in the soft chair across from his desk.
He continues, “What can I do for you?”
“I need a few days off.”
Jack sits up straight in his chair, now looking concerned. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“Everything will be fine. I just need to take a few days.” Jack studies me, and I can tell he’s about to dig for details. I offer up more rehearsed information before he can meddle. “It’s Frank. He’s had a…setback I guess you could say. I need to bring him back to the hospital over in Hays.”
Jack sinks a bit in his chair. “Oh, Bill, I’m sorry to hear that. When did it happen?”
“Late last night.”
“You should have just called me at home. You didn’t need to come in to talk to me.”
“It’s okay, I have a friend staying with him for now. And I just had some time off, so I just wanted to make sure you’re okay with it.”
“Bill, don’t worry about it, okay? Go take care of what you need to take care of, and come back when you can.”
I stand up from the chair before he changes his mind. “Thanks, Jack. I owe you one.”
I leave his office and walk over to my desk. I turn the monitor off but leave the machine running in case I need to login remotely again. I turn the corner, weave around the cubes, and head for the front door. I glance at my father’s commemoration plaque for what I expect will be the final time.
I will finish what you started, dad. I will get revenge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GEORGE
53rd Street is crowded at 8:45 A.M. on a Friday morning. The doors to the coffee shops are constantly revolving with people filing in and out to get what they need to make it to the weekend. People are scrambling on the sidewalks in their business suits. We’re right in the center of the business district, Billy and I, so the risk couldn’t be higher. The van is parked behind an old parking garage for easy access back to the freeway when we’re gone. Frank is waiting there for us.
We have to walk a couple of blocks to get to the bank, and we make a pit stop on the way. Billy drags me into a men’s clothing store and pays for some business casual slacks and a dress shirt for each of us in cash. He leaves an extra hundred for the young salesman so he doesn’t have to wait for him to make change, although he won’t b
udge on the dress socks buy-one get-one deal of the day. Go figure. We change in the dressing room and wear the new clothes out. We toss our old clothes in one of the trash cans outside.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say as we make our way into the bank. I try to flatten one stubborn wrinkle on the chest of my new shirt. “I work at a bank, what if someone recognizes me?”
“You used to work at a bank,” Billy says.
It’s a good point, as I’m sure I’ve been terminated by now. Although it still doesn’t solve the problem of potential recognition.
“Just follow my lead.”
We enter the bank and head right for the main desk. On the wall to the right is a framed headshot of a man in an expensive suit. I can’t read the name plate beneath it, but I recognize the face. I sat in on a compliance conference hosted by him recently, I think. I doubt he’d even recognize me if he saw me, but I’d rather not find out. I keep my head down and follow Billy as he brushes past everyone waiting in line and approaches the teller.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he interrupts.
“I’m sorry, Sir, you’ll have to wait in line just like everyone else,” the middle-aged teller says, dismissing him.
Billy grabs his wallet and flips it open, showing her his badge. “Official police business. I need access to one of the safety deposit boxes.”
Concern takes over her face and she asks the customer to step aside, although she immediately starts shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“I’m not asking.”
“I can’t. I could lose my job.”
Billy leans in. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” Billy searches for and finds the name tag on her blouse, “Barbara. We’ve received a report of a potential bomb on the premises and we need access to this box.”
Barbara gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. “A bomb?” she whispers in an attempt to block the conversation from the line of agitated customers.
I look around me. It seems no one has heard the conversation.
“That’s right, a bomb. Now, box number 282w. Please.”
Barbara hits some keys on her computer and gazes blankly at the screen. “That’s an invalid box number,” she says.
“Check again.”
Barbara hits some more keys and shakes her head. Nothing. “I’ll go get the manager, maybe he can help.”
I step forward, fearing the man from the photo will recognize me and blow our cover. “No, we don’t have time to wait for the manager.”
I can tell Billy’s surprised at my tone, but he tries not to show it.
“I don’t know what you want me to do, the number is invalid,” she says.
“What about without the ‘W’?”
Barbara hits some more keys and waits for her machine to load. She shakes her head again. She’s startling to look rattled and overwhelmed, and she soon begins to cry. Most of the customers have vacated the line behind me, but a few do still remain. One older man sees Barbara crying and looks especially concerned.
This is the last thing we need.
I need to come up with something quickly or this whole thing is going to be busted. Thinking back, I once had a safety deposit box that had five digits. Come to think of it, so did the ones at the bank that I work in, or is it worked now? That must be the problem.
“We’re missing a digit,” I say. Billy and Barbara both look at me simultaneously. “Most boxes have five digits, not four. Maybe the ‘W’ is code for something.”
There is a brief silence, then Barbara’s face lights up. “I got it!” she says excitedly. “‘W’ could be the location code of the box.” She wipes the tears from her cheek and goes back to work on her computer. “Our boxes are sorted by aisle number with each aisle matching with the corresponding alphabetic letter code.”
Billy looks at me for approval, but I have no idea what she is talking about; this bank is much larger than what I’m used to.
“Huh?” I say.
“The ‘W’ represents the twenty-third letter in the alphabet, so if I replace the ‘W’ with the twenty-three, we might have something.” She hits one final button on her computer and waits. “That’s it! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.” She disappears in the back office and returns with a giant looped key ring and walks around the counter. “Follow me.” She motions for us to follow her toward the vault, but she stops suddenly. “I almost forgot. The box can’t be opened without a second key. The bank has one and the box owner has one.”
Billy grins and reaches his hand in his pocket. “That won’t be a problem,” he says as he proudly shows off the brass key from Snake’s safe.
Barbara leads us through a heavily secured door at the back of the bank and into an open room. Metal shelves line the perimeter of the soundproof room from floor to ceiling. Similar longer metal shelves run wall to wall in the opposite direction. Small signs hang from each aisle, each one containing a two digit number. The numbers are in numerical order starting at one and stretching to twenty-six, just as she described.
In aisle twenty-three, about halfway down are the boxes in the two hundreds. Barbara fingers through the boxes until she comes upon 282.
“Here we are,” she says as she pulls out the box from the shelf. She brings the compact steel box to her chest and inserts her key into the hole closest to her. She twists the key and disengages the lock on her side. Billy tries to slide his key into the other hole, but it doesn’t fit. He flips it upside down and tries again, but it’s far too large for the hole. It looks nothing like the key that Barbara has, so it not fitting doesn’t surprise me in the least.
Barbara opens her mouth to speak, but Billy cuts her off by tearing the box from her hands. He smashes it against the concrete floor and without warning, pulls out his gun. Barbara shrieks and runs past me, rubbing my shoulder with hers. She and I both bail around the corner just as Billy opens fire on the box.
Six rounds explode before the gun clicks. Barbara covers her ears and sits in the corner, crying hysterically. My ears are ringing from the blasts, but I’m otherwise unharmed. My hands are trembling from the shock of the near miss. I force myself to peek around the corner and inspect the damage Billy has caused.
Below Billy’s feet is the box, torn to shreds. All six bullets pierced the box, each one just above the empty keyhole. Barbara’s key is still engaged on the other side. I didn’t think Billy would ever actually use the gun that he carries around, so this is a real eye opener for me. I fear he might be more dangerous that I had originally thought.
Gauging by his reaction, I can tell that this is not what we were looking for. I’m frightened at what he might do next if and when the pressure intensifies and the heat gets turned up. I watch as Billy is able to pry open what remains of the busted box and sift through the contents. There is a foreign passport belonging to a Chinese man plus a few thousand Yuan wrapped with an elastic band. He tosses the contents to the cement and walks out. Barbara meets him at the doorway.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she says. “What if there was a bomb in there?”
“It’s all clear,” Billy replies coldly as he brushes past her and makes his way back into the now empty main lobby of the bank.
Barbara throws her hands on her hips in disbelief at the officer’s rudeness. I don’t say anything to her as I leave, although I’m tempted to apologize. I hear footsteps running in the background as we exit through the front door of the bank. I turn back and catch a glimpse of Barbara pointing in our direction with a man beside her, probably the manager from the picture frame.
“Don’t look back,” Billy says as he turns me with a tug on my arm. The quietness from the bank is washed out by the busyness of the morning rush. We turn right onto 53rd Street and blend in with the crowd.
Maybe we’re overthinking this whole thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
BILLY
Wilson Memorial Psychiatric Hospital is in
Hays, Kansas, which is about three hours west of Topeka. We’re not going there. Frank was a permanent resident at the facility for four and a half years, starting when he was seventeen. He was involved in a physical altercation with a customer while he was working the register at a fast food restaurant at the time. The guy went nuts over a mistake with his order and Frank just snapped. He went ballistic and threw hot oil all over the guy’s face and nearly beat him to death. He was restrained by a group of bystanders in the restaurant until the cops showed up. It was clear as day on the restaurant surveillance, which included audio.
Several witnesses testified at his trial that he looked like he was possessed, like he needed an exorcist or something, and some of the things that were recognizable in the audio recording were actually quite disturbing. The prosecution played the audio over and over for the jury, and it never got any easier to listen to. Our father had hired the best defense team in the state, and they were able to get Frank off reasonably well. He was facing ten to twelve for various charges, and he was being tried as an adult. The jury agreed with the plea of insanity and he was sentenced to five years at Wilson’s inpatient care facility instead of prison. The victim’s face was pretty badly scarred from the burns, but his vision was unaffected. We never saw or heard from him again after the trial.
Frank was diagnosed early on in his stay with a Borderline Personality Disorder. The most shocking thing about it was that no one even knew there was anything wrong with him before. Sure, he was a little peculiar growing up, but it was just assumed to be social awkwardness. The hospital had told us that BPD patients typically aren’t aggressive toward others, but in rare cases they can be. Frank is a rare case. Most BPD patients do the most physical damage to themselves, usually cutting, but Frank never showed signs of wanting to hurt himself. They put him on some combination of medications and enrolled him in various therapy sessions, which helped them find the root cause of his troubles. Our mother’s death many years prior probably had something to do with it, although the hospital never did share their findings with dad and me. Frank doesn’t like to talk about it.
