C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation

by Dustin J. Palmer

  "Begging your pardon Ranger, but as far as I know I've never done anything to be on yours or anyone else's radar. What's your interest in me?"

  "I guess you're just an innocent good ole boy that got picked up for no reason at all. Is that it?" Henry smirked. "Then why the alias John? If you're such an upstanding citizen with nothing to fear, why the fake ID? The fake social security number? You sure went the full nine yards for someone living on the up and up."

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," John said, looking back up at the clock. "You know . . . I've always been curious about you Rangers. Even did some reading about you. Now if I’m not mistaken, you boys are quite a hard little group to get in too. Not just anyone can join.”

  “Oh it’s not that hard,” Henry waved the remark away with his hand. “There's a couple hundred of us.”

  “A couple hundred Rangers watching the whole state of Texas?”

  “It’s not too bad. We mostly handle big cases. Things that demand a little more attention than the local PD or Sheriff departments can muster. You know, serial killers, things of that nature,” he said, giving John a cold stare.

  “That so?” John chuckled. "I doubt you'd understand but I can relate better than you'd believe."

  You twisted son of a bitch. Don't you dare compare yourself to me! "Really? Why don't you tell me about it?"

  John tapped his fingers on the table nervously then looked up at the clock again. “I have a better idea. How about you tell me what this is all about? I mean, like I said, a Texas Ranger seems a little much for such a small misunderstanding.”

  Misunderstanding? I’ve been hunting you for a long time boy and now I’ve got you! “We'll get to that. But I'd like to get to know you first. So tell me, John, with the big slump in the oilfield you must be having a hard time finding work, so what do you do for a living these days?”

  “Oh you know, this and that . . . say Ranger, you think you could have these cuffs loosened up a bit? Those boys I bumped into slapped them on a little tight.”

  Henry laughed inwardly. “Bumped into? You mean those two officers you assaulted coming out of your house armed to the teeth with . . .” Henry held up a piece of paper with John's weapons listed for effect. He knew perfectly well, what he had been armed with. “One Winchester Model 1901 ten gauge shotgun, one .357 magnum . . . in your vehicle they found . . . one twelve gauge pump, one machete, three hundred rounds of ammunition. Do I need to go on? No Mr. Bishop, I think I'll keep those cuffs nice and tight for the time being.”

  “I didn’t assault anyone!” John slammed both handcuffed fists hard enough to shake the table. “I came out of my house with my own legally owned, constitutionally protected, firearms and these two assholes . . .” He motioned to the two-way mirror on the other side of the room. “Got in my way. It was an accident!”

  Henry turned in his seat, staring at the mirror. “Sure, sure, I believe you, John. I really do. And in the state of Texas, it’s perfectly fine to carry your own firearms on your own property. But we both know those guns aren’t registered to you.”

  John snorted, “Yeah well . . . I’m sure I’m not the only Texan with guns passed down to him. That ten gauge belonged to my great grandfather; his name is engraved on the stock. And the .357 was a gift from my father.”

  “Uh huh . . . your father you say? Well we'll get to that in a minute. Now . . . a 1901 . . . that’s a damn rare gun wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah I guess,” John bent down and scratched at his beard with his left hand. “Look Ranger, this is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the victim in this. Someone broke into my house and completely destroyed the place! Poured some weird thick, black shit all over my kitchen floor.”

  “Is that the same person that cut up your arm? The ER Doc that patched you up said they looked like animal claw marks, and I don’t see any mountain lions running loose on the streets of Midland.”

  “I don’t know who they were,” John wiped the sweat from his forehead on the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

  “Tell me, John, where’s your wife? Where’s your son? What happened to them?"

  John stared daggers through him. “What do you know about my wife?”

  “Your wife? What about your son?”

  “My son is fine,” he said, gritting his teeth. "Now answer my question.”

  Henry sat there quietly, listening to the clock tick. Very slowly, he opened the file in front of him and held out three pictures for John to see. “We found her car off I-20, twelve maybe thirteen miles east of town. Passenger side door was completely ripped off its hinges.”

  “Was there blood in the car?” John asked, frantically staring at the pictures.

  “Tell you what, John,” Henry pulled the pictures away. “You answer all of my questions. Truthfully. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Tit for Tat. What do you say?”

  “Damn it, Ranger, you’re wasting my time!” John again slammed his fists repeatedly into the table. “She’s running out of time!”

  The door opened and the two cops John had ‘assaulted’ stepped through. “Everything alright, Lieutenant?” The taller of the two asked.

  “Everything’s fine.” Henry said, not even glancing in their direction. “Thank you, officers.”

  They nodded then hesitantly stepped back through the door. “Listen, son, you’re in a whole mess of trouble. So just tell me what I want to know and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

  “I’m not saying another damn word until I see a lawyer,” John leaned back, trying to remain calm. “I know my rights; you can’t hold me here without letting me consult an attorney.”

  “Well, the local boys busted a big drug ring this morning. So, the public defender's office is going to be busy for quite a while. That should give us at least a couple of hours to chat. Unless you can afford some high priced attorney, and from the look of that shack, you were living in I'm betting that's a no. Am I right?

  John stared at him unmoving, his eyes hard and cold. “So back to my first question, why do you have an alias?”

  John leaned his head back and rolled his eyes, “Like I said, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me,” Henry laid the handcuff key on the table between them. “Believe me son, I have heard it all. So tell me what I want to hear and I'll loosen up those cuffs."

  The two sat their quietly for five more minutes, John continued to sweat profusely staring up at the clock. "You want to hear a story?" Henry asked, suddenly changing the subject. John sat there silently. "You ever heard of Lee Harvey Oswald, John F. Kennedy?"

  Again, John wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve, “Of course I've heard of JFK. Who hasn't? I was only three years old the year he was shot."

  "Well I figured as much. A man of your education probably doesn't want to hear a story from a man that was actually there,” Henry grew silent again, knowing full well John wanted to know.

  "You were there the day JFK was shot?"

  "Not exactly. But I was there when they caught Oswald."

  “No shit?” John asked his interest clearly peaked.

  “I'll tell you what, John. How's about while we sit here waiting on the Public Defender to make his way through the twenty or so gang bangers they busted this morning, I tell you my little tale.”

  John rolled his head around cracking his neck. “Do I have a choice?”

  Henry chuckled, “You’ve always got a choice, John. I'm ready to listen anytime you're ready to start talking.”

  “Alright, as long as I'm stuck here . . . tell me the story about the brave Texas Ranger that single handedly brought down the man that killed JFK.”

  “Now I never said all that,” Henry chuckled. “Besides, if I’m going to tell this story I might as well start at the beginning.”

  “Might as well,” John, agreed sarcastically. "I wouldn't want to miss out on the miracle of your birth."

  "Well, I don't think we ne
ed to go that far back." Henry chuckled again. "Did you ever have a dream, John? Something you knew you was destined for?"

  John nodded. "Sure, who doesn't?"

  "Well sir, for as long as I can remember my dream was to be a cop. You see, three months before I was born, my daddy was killed by a drifter. So, I never got to know him. But throughout my entire childhood I listened to my older brothers tell stories about what a great man he was. I guess it just always bothered me that they never caught the guy that did it. So, I suppose that was my main influence in wanting to become a cop. The other was Dick Tracy." Henry said, with a laugh. “Did you ever listen to or watch Dick Tracy?”

  “A time or two,” John answered. “I saw the movie with Madonna a couple of years back. Never was that big in to it to tell you the truth.”

  "Well we didn't have televisions like kids today have, but we did have a radio. And every weeknight my brothers and I would gather round it and listen to the adventures of Dick Tracy. My older brothers favored the villains of course. They were much more interested in Big Boy and Flat Top than they were Tracy. I on the other hand was a Tracy fan through and through. I wanted to catch bad guys and solve crimes more than anything else. I figured that if Dick Tracy had been in town the day my daddy was killed he wouldn't have been killed at all. Ah the innocence of youth.

  “Well when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor my brothers all joined up. I was far too young, barely six when the war started, so it was just Ma and me for a while. One by one men in uniform delivered letters saying my brothers had been killed in action. Jimmy was killed at Normandy, Sam at Iwo Jima, and Troy, well Troy was killed in some freak accident on the way home of all things! He made it through the whole damn war and was killed by some yahoo dropping a jeep on him on a transport ship. Terrible luck I guess.

  "In '52 Ma got sick and died, leaving me to fend for myself. I was only seventeen at the time, but I decided right then and there I was going to do whatever it took to become a Detective. To stop crimes before they were committed. And that's just what I did.”

  “Just like that?”

  "Well of course it wasn’t easy. But I took the test and in ‘57 got my first job working for Dallas PD as a Patrolman. Man I tell you, things were sure different in those days. People were respectful; neighbors actually spoke to one another. Just all around better times. That all seemed to change one November day in 1963. For me especially."

  "The day Kennedy was shot?" John said, leaning forward.

  Henry took a few seconds to answer, trying to put it into just the right words, “Well . . . yes and no. While the President being murdered was horrific and tragic, it wasn't the thing that changed me. You see another murder happened that day, one that's often overlooked in the whole Kennedy conspiracy plot. J.D. Tippit. You see John, Tippit, like me, was a Patrolman. He was brutally murdered by Lee Harvey Oswald not long after Kennedy was shot."

  “Yeah I remember seeing that in that JFK movie by Oliver Stone,” John nodded. “Some people said it wasn’t Oswald at all. It was some impostor dressed to look like him.”

  Henry held up his hands, “Now I'm not going to get into if Oswald killed Kennedy or not, but I know for a fact he killed Tippit. You see I was first on the scene that day. I didn't know Tippit; I had never even met the man before. But when I pulled up on that scene and saw his bullet riddled body lying there on that street. Well, John, I'll think about that scene every day until the day, I die. It just rattled me like I'd never been rattled before. I can tell you personally that I interviewed those witnesses and all of them gave us Oswald's description. I have no doubt he murdered that man in cold blood."

  Henry grew quiet for a few seconds before continuing. "Well, a couple of hours later we caught him in the Texas Theater. He put up a little bit of a fight and got roughed up a bit by a couple of the boys, but with a little effort, we got him under control. Two days later Jack Ruby put a snub nosed .38 in his stomach and pulled the trigger, ending his life and leaving unanswered questions that people would debate for decades to come."

  John snorted. “Man that’s no joke. Shame one of you guys didn’t pop Ruby before he got to him.”

  "Well anyway, I made Detective in '64. Most the cases they tossed my direction were cold cases. Cases other detectives had long since given up on. At first, the other men in the department gave me a hard time. Started calling me Cold Case Anderson. But I shut them up pretty quick by cracking cases that had been unsolved for years. I'd meet with victim’s families, old friends, ex co-workers, neighbors, anything to crack the case. In ‘67, my career took a drastic turn. I'd gotten a job with the DPS and was loaned out to a small West Texas town to help solve a multiple homicide. The Riker family.”

  "The Riker family?" John asked, his body going stiff.

  "Thought that might get your attention. You see, John, I know you better than you think I do. I interviewed your wife when she was only five or six years old. She'd seen her entire family murdered by some preacher in a frock coat. She said he'd also kidnapped her seventeen year old brother, Michael."

  John coughed uncomfortably then fidgeted in his seat.

  "Yep, the only survivors were poor little Julia and her old man, Richard Riker,” Henry spat the name out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Now that man was a miserable human being, cold, arrogant, a real piece of work. For the longest time I thought he was the killer.”

  “I don't think I'd ever classify Riker as a human being,” John added. "More like a slimy little snake. You think it was bad having to talk to him? Try having him for a father in law.”

  “I can imagine,” Henry nodded. “But his alibi checked out. Turns out, he was just a piece of trash that had been out all night drinking with his buddies. The son of a bitch made millions in the oilfield a few years after his family was killed. Over the years, he turned it into billions! Crazy world ain't it? But I don’t need to tell you that. Anyway, I met a strange character while I was investigating. A man by the name of Cort Bishop.”

  John sat there quietly looking up at the ceiling, “Seems like Cort had an interest in the same case. However, I never could determine why. So anyway, the Riker's case remained unsolved. But it put me onto a couple of other strange cases. An elderly couple several miles away were murdered, their heads were cut clean off. The house was burned to the ground. Even stranger, a local cop sent to investigate the fire disappeared without a trace,” Henry snapped his fingers. "Just like that, without a trace. No squad car, no body. He was just . . . gone. To this day, I haven't a clue as to what happened to him.

  "So anyway, over the next few years I started connecting the dots on dozens of other cases of disappearance with the same MO's as the Riker boy. Strange cases, where people that disappeared out of their houses without a wallet, money, or ID. No one just walks out of the house leaving their car in the garage and their wallet or purse on their nightstand.

  "Always in the same area I'd find arson cases with beheaded bodies burnt all the way down to bones. Sometimes, we’d find the heads burnt to a crisp, a few feet away from the house with teeth missing. Sometimes we wouldn't find them at all. Trophies would be my guess. But there were never enough bodies to match the number of disappearances. I knew in my gut they were connected.

  "Another thing that struck me odd was that when I really started digging, the same names kept coming up. Names like Bishop, Turner, Williams Anderson, and Casino. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Mr. Bishop?”

  John looked down at his hands cuffed tightly to the table. Henry stared at him watching his every move. "So I dug deeper and deeper, connecting cases going back decades. I'd spend hours digging through file after tattered file of cases going back all the way to the 1920's. As crazy as it sounds some kind of weird mass conspiracy appeared.

  "My superiors thought I was obsessed. I was even reprimanded and forced to take time off. But I knew I wasn't crazy."

  “You sure about that?” John asked looking him in the eye for the first time since
he had mentioned the name Riker.

  Henry ignored him. "My theory was this: a very old serial killer or group, or possibly even a family of killers were operating in the Southern U.S. and was damn good at taking people, torturing them for several days and then beheading them. Last but not least, they torched the scene of the crime to cover the evidence. I just knew there was something to this. In the Dallas/Fort Worth area alone I'd found at least ten separate cases over a thirty year period.”

  Henry stopped and watched his suspect for any signs of nervousness. John showed absolutely no emotion. The sweat hung heavy from his brow, but it didn’t seem to be a nervous sweat. Something's wrong here. It’s hot but not that hot . . . “Still with me John? Do you need anything? A drink of water?”

  “No. I’m fine.” John shrugged.

  I bet you are you sick son of a bitch, your sweating bullets. "Well one day I had a strange visit from an agency man. I never knew which agency he came from, but I could tell that by the way my superiors catered to him that he was Government. FBI, CIA, NSA, the initials didn't really matter, the message was clear. The Agent man, with my commanding officer at his side, told me point blank to stop looking, stop digging, some things weren't meant to be solved. Stop or lose your job.

  "By this time I was married with two kids and had little choice. So I stopped. Three years after that I applied to one of the most respected law enforcement agencies in the world, the Texas Rangers. To my surprise, I was accepted in almost record time. I had the sinking feeling my application had been pushed through on purpose. That someone was rewarding me for keeping my theories to myself."

  “You sure you’re not a tad bit crazy?” John asked. “Now there’s a big government conspiracy to get your career on track?”

  "That's funny,” Henry chuckled. "You're a funny guy. Well believe it or not, the exact opposite turned out to be true. Two days before I was to take up my position, I met with my new commanding officer, Captain James Barnes at his ranch outside of Alpine. Barnes told me straight to my face that he'd been pressured to take me on and wanted to know why. I knew an honest man when I saw one so I took a chance and told him my theory."