The Deadliest Sins

by Rick Reed

  Sanchez said to Jack in a sarcastic tone, “Maybe the ‘witness’ remembered something important after we left.” He pulled the mic from the holder. “Go.”

  “This is gonna blow your socks off, Lou. You still got those two Evansville guys with you?” Kim said.

  Sanchez said, “Yeah. Why? Did she identify one of them as the killer now?”

  “You need to call dispatch. Right now, Lou,” Kim said. “I think it’s your guy.”

  “We have another truck?” Sanchez asked.

  “No. Just call dispatch. I don’t want to say anything else. Get me?”

  “Will do. Thanks.” Sanchez knew she was worried about Libby overhearing and changing her story again. He replaced the mic and said, “This might involve you guys.” He called dispatch on his cell phone.

  Sanchez’s side of the conversation made Jack’s stomach drop. Sanchez hung up and honked the horn until Liddell came out. Liddell threw the boxes in the back of the Crown Vic and got in the Denali. Sanchez put it in gear and made a U-turn.

  “Shit!” Sanchez said.

  * * * *

  Det. Larry Jansen of the Missing Person Unit knocked on the door.

  “Come,” Deputy Chief Richard Dick said using his royal voice, the one he reserved for talking to peasants, which was anyone below him in rank, including most of the public.

  Jansen entered the spacious office and waited to be told he could sit. He wasn’t, so he remained standing to deliver his report.

  “I tried to get some information on the survivor’s whereabouts, but Murphy shut me down,” Jansen said. “I checked with my niece. You remember me telling you she’s working in Senator Young’s office as an intern?”

  Dick rolled a finger in the air and said nothing.

  “Yeah. Okay. My niece checked with her boyfriend, who’s working as an intern for Homeland Security, and he knows someone in...”

  “Larry, I trust there’s a point to your interrupting my work?”

  Dick’s desk top was bare except for a cell phone that lay screen up. He was playing Scrabble with Friends. Dick turned the phone over and cleared his throat.

  “Anyway, my niece said the State Department has never been notified of the existence of an illegal alien in custody of the police in Evansville. That’s against...”

  “Department policy,” Dick finished the sentence. “I already knew that. Did you locate the boy? Yes or no?”

  “No,” Jansen admitted. “I’ve been pulling out all the stops on this, but I don’t see how finding the boy is going to get us any closer to solving these murders? I mean, he’s just a kid. He was lucky to survive. According to everyone I talked to, the truck trailer was locked shut. They froze to death. And the other guy they think was the driver was found clear across town. I think we’re barking up a dead tree.”

  “I want the boy,” Dick said. “Do what you do best, Larry. Get information and pass it on to me. Just me. Understand?”

  “If I do all this, do we still have a deal?” Jansen asked.

  Dick sat stone-faced, but Jansen wouldn’t be deterred. “Do we?”

  Dick picked up his cell phone, indicating the meeting was at an end.

  Jansen held his ground, and Dick flapped a hand toward the door. “I keep my word, Larry. Now go, but keep in touch. I want you to report even the smallest piece of information you dig up, even if you ‘think’ it’s nothing. We’re a team on this. I should know what you know.”

  As Jansen walked through the door, he muttered under his breath, “That goes both ways, asshole.”

  When the door shut behind Jansen, the deputy chief took a file folder from his desk drawer. It contained photos of both crime scenes. He had a complete file on a thumb drive, but he’d printed several pictures that he thought would be snapped up by the news media.

  He knew he had a reputation. Media Whore they called him behind his back. Double Dick. It rankled him to be made fun of, but then, he’d risen to the rank of Deputy Chief because of who he was. He was at the top of his career, merit-rank-wise, but he still had one more step, Chief of Police. That was an appointed position, but he had friends on the city council, friends that were big tax contributors, even an ex-congressman. It didn’t matter if the rank and file of the Evansville Police Department hated him. He could still become chief of police and a high-profile, hell, a national-profile case like this could be just the ticket.

  He perused the reports he’d ordered Detective Chapman to supply, and he had copies of the initial police crime reports. The thing he didn’t have was that damn Detective Murphy’s notes. Murphy didn’t do reports until the deed was done. It always infuriated him that he wasn’t kept in the loop like Captain Franklin or Chief Pope. Hell, even Sergeant Walker was privy to much of the current progress of a case, and he always played ignorant. Dick swore that when he became chief of police he would clean house. The ones loyal to him would hold all the positions of power. It would be good for the city. Good for the police department. Most of all, it would be good for him. When he retired he wanted to be able to say he’d risen to the top. He was so close.

  He held a particularly heart-wrenching photo taken of the huddled frozen bodies in the back of the trailer. He placed it on top of the pile and dialed a number on his desk phone.

  “You’ve reached Claudine Setera, Channel Six. Leave your message at the beep,” came the voice over the line.

  Deputy Chief Dick hung up before the beep. He wasn’t ready to go out on a limb quite yet. He needed to know where the boy was first. He’d find a way to make Murphy tell him.

  Chapter 23

  The Dream Lodge in Evansville was anything but that. The bed was as hard as a cinder block, the same stuff as the unpainted water-stained walls. Coyote had left the truck stop café after killing the state trooper. He wasn’t concerned about being stopped by the police. He was invisible as far as the cops were concerned. He’d thrown the stuff from the café into the Mississippi as he crossed the bridge, and no one had slowed to watch him park on the bridge. They were all sheep. How would they survive without men like him to protect them?

  The cops weren’t bad people, just stretched too thin and under too many political edicts. He wasn’t. He’d seen the light and made his own path.

  Room ten at the Dream Lodge smelled like stale cigarette smoke, the stink of sex, mold, and rotting wood. He dropped his gym bag on the bed and took off his Colts jacket. He’d bought it in a thrift store when he’d gotten into Evansville. The jacket would draw attention away from his face. The Indianapolis Colts football team were like gods in Indiana.

  He’d need solid information on the whereabouts of the boy. He didn’t think his source would have anything on the kid. He needed to know more. He needed background on Detective Jack Murphy and the big guy, Blanchard, his partner. He’d learned the hard way that you never underestimate your opponent. Murphy exuded determination. Cleverness. The big guy was a rock wall that would take some climbing. Together they were more of an obstacle than they first appeared.

  He played with the idea of approaching Deputy Chief Richard Dick for the information he needed. He could show Dick a badge. He had several of them. Or he could say he was with the Indianapolis newspaper. Dick liked to talk. A talking dick. Coyote smiled, but the smile faded quickly. Bad shit happened when you weren’t focused. Plus, showing his face to the deputy chief would mean he’d have to eliminate the arrogant man. Another cop would raise too many eyebrows.

  He had a source where he could get the information he needed, but he hesitated to call them. If his source wasn’t aware of his failure to eliminate a target in that hick town, they would soon work it out. They might even try to turn it to their own advantage. He didn’t think his source would want him caught. Killed, but not caught. Coyote knew too many secrets.

  His shrink had said, “Don’t ruminate. Write.” He scooted back on the mattress until his
back was against the wall and opened his journal:

  It’s all turned to shit. Yesterday, I was looking forward to the next mission. Now I’ve got to clean up a mess. I was careful but I made a mistake. That worries me.

  I left the old woman alive. She was no threat to my mission but the boy shouldn’t have survived. That’s the way mistakes played out. One problem leads to another and pretty soon the shit hits the fan. I take no pleasure in killing a boy. Any boy. But he’s a sacrifice. I can’t afford to fail.

  Lost my appetite. My sleep is filled with the past. The jungle. The medic. The chopper lifting off. The pain in my chest. Can’t breathe. It’s real to me. But then I’m home. My home. Not the jungle. I see my wife and little boy. His face is dirty and smeared with tears because Daddy is going to work. Waving Daddy goodbye. Then dirt of the border trail kicking up dust, thick choking dust even with the windows up. The two men in the Explorer’s headlights, not running, staring us down, one of them gives us the finger. Shots. Blood. I scream at my partner but nothing comes out. I am helpless to stop what’s coming but I enjoy it all the same. I feel alive.

  My past was the mistakes of youth. Why won’t it end there? It follows me around like sewer gnats. My country’s enemy is growing in numbers every day. It’s like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon. I can’t kid myself. I’ll never stop the spread of this disease alone. But who can I turn to? The government is a joke. They play at being a soldier. I’m the real deal. They complain. I act.

  He put the notebook away and unzipped the gym bag. He took a bottle of peroxide and a sharpening stone from the bag and went to the rust-stained sink in the bathroom.

  He poured peroxide on the bayonet blade and put the bottle on the side of the chipped porcelain tub. He scrubbed all the blood away and scrubbed it again. His dad always said, “You take care of your tools, and they’ll take care of you.” He was right about that at least. He went to work with the whetstone. Soon, the four-edged bayonet was gleaming.

  He wiped the blade clean with toilet paper and slipped his Indianapolis Colts team jacket back on over a clean Black Watch–patterned flannel shirt. He pulled on a faded baseball cap, a pair of faded Cat boots, and slipped the bayonet in the sheath behind his back.

  He saw a library a few blocks away when he came into Evansville. Libraries had internet. He’d start there. He needed a clue to where the boy was being kept. If the newswoman could be believed, the kid wasn’t taken by Immigration. Murphy had shown his soft spot. The kid. That was Murphy’s mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.

  Chapter 24

  Sanchez stopped the Denali short of the yellow-and-black crime scene tape that was blocking the entrance to the café parking area. Four gray Missouri State Highway Patrol cars were positioned carefully in the parking lot to maintain the required crime scene integrity. A trooper sat in one of the vehicles up front near the café entrance, head down, most likely doing a report. A fifth marked vehicle, their crime scene wagon, was parked back near the perimeter tape.

  A tall trooper was pulling perimeter duty and watched them closely as they exited the Denali. He was wearing a fur cap with the straps snapped under his chin instead of the traditional Smokey Bear hat associated with State Police.

  A second trooper stood at the foot of the café’s entrance with a clipboard stuffed under one arm. He was dressed similar to the perimeter guard but with the addition of sergeant’s chevrons sewed on his Tuffy jacket. He was stamping his feet in a futile effort to keep warm but stopped while he sized up the three newcomers. He must have made them for cops and went back to doing what crime scene log officers do. Nothing.

  Jack couldn’t see the other troopers that must be on the scene and assumed they were inside the café.

  As he approached the trooper on perimeter duty, he realized that Bigfoot was right about the federal agent badges. Having federal identification would have made this much easier. Sanchez took his badge case out and was about to show his to the perimeter guard when a female trooper came out of the café. She was tall with dirty blond hair tucked under her Smokey hat. Her Rocky boots made no sound as she moved quickly toward them. Her mouth turned down at the sides as if she were angry to be interrupted.

  “This is a crime scene,” she said in a tone somewhere between incredulous, curious, and challenging. “You have no business here. Turn around and get back in your car.”

  Sanchez approached the crime scene tape and in a deft move slid underneath while holding his leather credential case open and out. “Federal agents, Lieutenant,” he said.

  The trooper’s nametag identified her as Lt. J. Battle, and there were silver bars on the epaulets of her jacket to confirm that. Battle ignored Sanchez’s credentials and asked Jack and Liddell, “You two federal agents too?”

  “They’re with me, Lieutenant Battle,” Sanchez said, slipping his badge and his hands in his pockets.

  “Show me,” Battle said to Jack.

  Jack’s badge identified him as an Evansville PD detective, but he showed it anyway. Liddell followed suit.

  “Indiana, huh? What’s two Indiana detectives doing at my crime scene? Matter of fact, what are you doing in my crime scene?” she said to Sanchez.

  “Maybe Lieutenant Sanchez should explain,” Jack said.

  “Lieutenant now, huh? I didn’t know the Feds had lieutenants,” Battle said. “Let me see that badge again.”

  Sanchez said, “We’re part of a newly formed federal task force.” He handed her his credentials again. While she examined the ID carefully, he said, “We were told by the St. Louis police dispatcher that this might be connected to a mass murder we’re investigating.”

  The words “mass murder” got her attention.

  “You mean the truck trailer in August?” she asked. “The illegals? You’re working that?”

  “Yeah,” Sanchez said. “These men are Evansville detectives but have been sworn in as federal officers and are assigned to the task force. They have a similar case in Evansville. You can call FBI Deputy Assistant Director Toomey, who’s in charge of our task force.” He wrote a phone number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. “That’s the local FBI number. Ask for Toomey.”

  Battle returned Sanchez’s badge case. She watched their faces to judge whether they were telling the truth and said to Sanchez, “Well, I could turn this ‘mass’ murder scene over to you guys, but even if you prove it’s connected to yours, I won’t do that.” She pointed toward the State Trooper vehicle where the driver hadn’t yet moved. “I got a dead trooper, and as much as I appreciate your interest, you don’t have jurisdiction here, so bye bye.”

  Sanchez straightened to his six-foot-three height. “We can play rock-paper-scissor all day, Jill, but we have to confirm that we don’t have an interest in this case. We won’t know that until you tell us what you’ve got.”

  Jack thought, Jill. They know each other, so why’s she being such a hardass?

  Lt. Jill Battle took a deep breath without speaking.

  Sanchez continued, “If this is connected to our cases, we will be involved in your investigation and you can bet your Smokey-hat-wearing ass that we’re not leaving here until we find out.”

  “Uh oh,” Liddell muttered.

  Battle met Sanchez eye to eye, lips tight, and then said, “You understand that I don’t know any of your friends personally or professionally, and I’ve never heard of this task force. I’m going to call this guy Toomey.” She turned to go to her car. Over her shoulder, she said to the perimeter guard, “Don’t let them go anywhere.”

  After she was out of earshot Liddell said, “Should we assume the position?”

  Sanchez tapped the butt of his .45. “We’re better shots, but in a fistfight, you don’t want to mess with Jill,” Sanchez said, causing the perimeter guard to chuckle.

  “She’s just doing her job,” Jack said. “She doesn’t understand the
dynamics involved here. We’re police from two different jurisdictions telling her we’re Feds and asking to involve ourselves in a State Highway Patrol investigation that’s her jurisdiction; plus, one of her own was murdered.”

  “She’s just being a bitch, Jack,” Sanchez said, surprising them. “She’s trying to act like she doesn’t remember me. A few months back I met her at a club. I guess she’s still sore that I didn’t tell her my real name.”

  “Give her a break,” Jack said. “They’ve lost someone.”

  When they’d first arrived on scene, Jack had assumed the occupant of the Highway Patrol cruiser was doing paperwork. A sick feeling crawled into the pit of his stomach. The dead trooper’s cruiser was nearest the café door. The parking area was gravel that was frozen hard and ran around both sides of the café. On the left side of the café, he could see the side of a red Dumpster. There didn’t appear to be any other vehicles, and he didn’t see any tire tracks, but the cruiser’s tires hadn’t left tracks either.

  He turned his attention back to the dead trooper. “The trooper didn’t have a chance to get out of the car.” The sick feeling Jack felt turned to barely contained rage. “What the hell is happening to this world?”

  “Pod’na, this is a screwed-up mess,” Liddell said and asked Sanchez, “Lou, were there any unexplained murders at the time of the incidents in Florida or any of the others?”

  Sanchez said, “I know what’s in the reports from the other states. That’s all. I’ll see if Anna can get us a list of murders that happened around the date of death in the other states.”

  Liddell said, “We don’t know if the killer is male or female or if there’s more than one. I read your coroner’s report, and they didn’t even offer a guess. We probably need to talk to your coroner again and get an opinion.”

  Sanchez said, “If the killer is female, she’s one hell of a strong female. The wounds are twenty or more inches deep, but I see what you’re saying. You said your video shows a man in the Coffee Shop.”